Chakotay's Holidays
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
Summary: Chapter 18, 'The Things We Do for Love.' In honor of Chakotay's birthday, B'Elanna attempts to contact the spirit guide she once tried to kill. A familiar spirit comes to her aid. Post 'Endgame.' CT.
1. Let Nothing You Dismay

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Let Nothing You Dismay  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K  
CODE(S): C, T. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 1/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is the first in what I intend as a year-long series depicting the development of a C/T relationship through scenes set on various holidays and special occasions. I got the idea from Britta's delightful C/P series "Tom's Favorite Holidays" (located at the Tom Paris Dorm), though my approach is more serious in nature. Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
SUMMARY: After a holiday party, Chakotay returns to his apartment to find unexpected company. Set post-"Endgame." 

Chakotay whistled a little song, softly, as he walked down the long quiet corridor to his apartment. He had no idea who Jeanette or Isabelle were supposed to be, or why they ought to bring a torch -- had in fact never heard their song before tonight -- but something in the lilting melody, and its suggestion of childlike happiness, appealed to him. And so he whistled.

Though he'd never been a celebrant of Christmas himself (had in fact never heard of the holiday until he'd gone to Starfleet Academy), Chakotay had enjoyed Christmas parties from the first time he'd attended one. //Fireplaces, good food, singing, happy people -- what's not to like?// And this evening's celebration had been a fine example of the genre. In fact, the only possible complaint Chakotay might have made about tonight's party was its early end. But the host, Chakotay's coworker Philippe, had apologetically said that he had to be up early next morning, as his children were expecting a visit from Pere Noel.

Arriving at his own familiar door, Chakotay spoke his name for the voiceprint lock, and the door whooshed open to admit him. He stepped through the doorway, and froze.

He had definitely not left a light on in his living room.

He stepped back into the entranceway, keeping the door -- and his options -- open. Summoning his best former-Maquis-captain-and-erstwhile-Starfleet-commander voice, he demanded, "All right, who are you and what do you want?"

There was a stirring from the shadowed vicinity of his couch, as of a reclining person sitting up. A weary, familiar voice said. "Pipe down, Chakotay. It's me."

"B'Elanna?" He moved into the entranceway then, letting the door slide shut behind him. "What are you doing here?" At this time of day -- and especially on this particular day -- normally she would have been home with her husband Tom and their toddler Miral. "How did you get in?"

"Oh, please, Chakotay. Did you really think I couldn't hack a simple voice lock?" Her voice was still soft. "Sorry I took you by surprise. I just couldn't think of anywhere else for us to go."

"Us?" He stepped closer to her, and realized that she was not alone. Miral lay curled up at the head of the couch, her pastel blankets pale against its dark green fabric. The chubby two-year-old was sound asleep, a thumb planted firmly in her mouth. "B'Elanna, what's going on?"

She pushed herself up from the furniture in one swift move, so gracefully that the cushions weren't even slightly jostled. Propping a bolster behind her daughter's back, she gestured Chakotay toward the darkened kitchen. He followed, lighting a single low light in concession to the need not to disturb Miral. Then he cupped a hand over B'Elanna's shoulder, watching his friend's face carefully. "B'Elanna, what is it? What's wrong? Please."

"It's Tom." For a moment she looked as if she were about to cry, but instead she gritted her teeth, her features twisting into an expression that was closer to a snarl.

"What did he do?"

B'Elanna's expression was sour. "I just decided I'm tired of keeping the bed warm by myself when he's not around."

"What do you mean?" A disturbing thought occurred to Chakotay. "He's not cheating on you, is he?" Even as he said the words, Chakotay found the prospect hard to believe. Pre-B'Elanna, Paris had been so much the ladies man that at first Chakotay had feared his friend would be merely the next notch on the pilot's belt. But once the two of them had gotten together, even protective Chakotay had never had any reason to question Tom's fidelity.

"Hah." B'Elanna's expression showed her scorn of that idea. "I don't think he has the time."

"Excuse me?" Chakotay was bewildered now.

"It's his work, Chakotay," B'Elanna said impatiently. "He's never home from work. Do you know where he is right now? At Starfleet headquarters, testing a new shuttle prototype!"

"On Christmas Eve?" Chakotay was incredulous. Though celebration of the Christian Christmas was far from universal in the 24th century, everybody who knew B'Elanna knew that Christmas was HER favorite holiday, and she celebrated it with all her heart. "Was he ordered to do the tests?"

"No!" she snarled. "He was ASKED. And I asked him, couldn't it wait until the 26th. And he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind."

Wanting to thrash Tom Paris, Chakotay squeezed her shoulder. "Okay," he said quietly, "okay. I get the picture." Buying himself time to think, he turned to his replicator unit and called her up a tall glass of ale. While she blew a light coating of froth off the top, he called up another one for himself, and took a sip. Toeing a couple of chairs out from the dark-wood table, he took one and gestured B'Elanna to the other.

After a moment he suggested, "I know this is a bad night for him to do that, B'Elanna, but if this is the first time it's ever happened..." He let his voice trail off. Spirits, he didn't particularly want to be fair to the man who had upset his friend, but he owed B'Elanna more than to let her do anything rash when she was upset. And he knew he wouldn't be doing her any favors by widening the breach between her and her husband.

She actually chuckled ironically (but softly, so as not to disturb Miral) at that. "Give me a little credit, Chakotay. I'm not the rampaging Klingon I used to be." She sipped at her drink, growling softly and appreciatively. "No, this is pretty much all the time now. There's always a new prototype. Always one more test. And he never treats any of it as optional, even when it is. Even when it's Christmas!"

Chakotay took another mouthful of his own beverage. "Well," he said, cautiously, "it's not as if he's the only workaholic in the family." He quirked a little smile at her.

"Nice try, Chakotay." She set her glass down on the table. "But tell me the truth -- do you really think I'd be here if it wasn't a lot worse than that?"

And of course there was only one answer to that. "No. No I don't." Having been through the experience of being abandoned, B'Elanna wouldn't visit it on anyone else lightly. He reached across the table and took her hand. "How bad is it, B'Elanna?"

Her lips twisted. "It wasn't too bad at first. I actually thought it was kind of nice when Tom's dad used to comm him and invite him over to take a look at some new project, test-flight the sims and so on. I thought, well, that's great, he's finally getting to spend some time with his father. And he really did seem to like it. He came home and it was all, oh, he and Dad did this, he and Dad did that, he and Dad did some damned other thing."

"Tom's father is behind this?" Chakotay had not had the impression the older Paris disapproved of B'Elanna, or would want to make her unhappy.

"No, I said that's where it started. Then a couple of old admirals saw Tom at work, and the next thing I knew, half of Starfleet's senior command is calling my husband and asking can he please come over and help with their pet ship-project. And you know..." her hand circled in a helpless, frustrated gesture, "you know how Tom loves to fly. You remember Alice?"

"Sure." The strange ship-being that had tried to commandeer Paris (and kill B'Elanna when she interfered) wasn't something Chakotay was likely to forget. "But I thought a lot of Tom's obsession then was Alice's fault."

"Not all of it." B'Elanna slugged back a good portion of her drink. "Not nearly enough of it."

"B'Elanna. Have you tried to talk to Tom?"

She swirled her glass, staring down into the liquid at its depths. "He doesn't think there's a problem."

"I see." Actually, he didn't; in spite of his early skepticism, Chakotay had come to believe that Tom Paris did indeed care for B'Elanna Torres, maybe even more than he loved flying.

//Or maybe not.// Chakotay swallowed some more of his own drink before setting it down. "So what brings you here?"

She looked affronted. "I thought you told me I could always come here."

"You can. And you're welcome to stay, no matter what. I'm just asking why. Are you moving out, or are you trying to shock Tom into realizing how serious you are about there being a problem?"

Troubled, she cast her brown eyes down at the tabletop. "I'm not sure. The second one, I think."

"Okay." Chakotay's feelings were mixed: he was pleased to see that she wanted to work through her relationship problems, rather than revert to her old practice of flaring up, breaking a few noses, and storming off. On the other hand, he was troubled to see his old friend so unhappy, and not quite sure Paris deserved such consideration. "Like I said, you and Miral are welcome to stay here as long as you want. But if you're planning an overnight or two, I have a guest bedroom that's more comfortable than the couch."

The offer coaxed a smile from B'Elanna. "Sold." She used the table to lever herself to her feet. "Could you keep an eye on Miral for a few minutes? My hover's parked in the complex garage, and Miral's Christmas presents are in the trunk."

"Get her to bed. I'll get the presents."

He followed her directions to the hover, all the while pondering the circumstances that had prompted this mother and child to take shelter in his home on Christmas Eve. One thing for certain: Philippe would be surprised to learn that his Native American colleague had joined him in taking the role of Pere Noel.

Next: "Same Auld Lang Syne" (a New Year's Eve story)


	2. Same Old Lang Syne

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Same Old Lang Syne  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+ (mild language)  
CODES: C, T. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 2/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Kathy Speck for the care and feeding of plotbunnies. Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
SUMMARY: At a New Year's Eve party for Voyager's former crew, B'Elanna and Chakotay make a shocking discovery. 

In easy synch with the rhythm of the music, Chakotay guided his dance partner into a smooth turn -- or would have, had not said partner been totally resistant to being guided. After a moment, he yielded gracefully to the inevitable, and let her guide him. In uniform or not, he thought, bemused, Kathryn Janeway never had gotten used to taking someone else's lead. At least she was a skilled dancer and, aside from that momentary tussle, not making them look too bad before their former crew.

Truth be told, dancing with her hadn't been his idea. It would be fair to say he'd had no profound objection to the notion, but it had originated with some of the junior officers and, he knew, had probably been inspired by those old, persistent rumors of him and Kathryn having a romantic relationship. Well, the dance itself ought to put paid to such ideas; though the music was slow and sweet, he and she stood a full handspan apart, and their only physical contact was hand-to-hand, hand-to-shoulder, and hand-to-waist.

There had been a time, of course, when he wouldn't have been averse to making those rumors true. He wondered whether Kathryn was thinking of that same time.

"This party's a lot smaller than the one we had last New Year's Eve," she said, effectively answering his question even as she introduced the neutral topic.

Mentally, he shook his head, again bemused. Had she ever thought about their relationship (or lack of same) as much as he had? He doubted it. He took up the conversational gambit nonetheless. "Yes. Yes, it is. Not that that's a bad thing, of course."

"Of course. It means that our people have finally had the chance to get on with their lives."

"Yes. Something to celebrate." The process of re-acclimation had been unusually protracted for the former crew of Voyager, no thanks to the zealous enforcers of Federation and Starfleet law. Chakotay himself had missed the crew's first New Year's Eve party on Earth, while he did what the Federation Council euphemistically referred to as "straightening out his legal status." (What HE had called it was nothing to recollect at a party.) By their second New Year's Eve, however, most of the former Maquis were at liberty and most of the longtime Fleeters were still taking retraining at Starfleet Academy, resulting in what was likely to remain the largest Alpha Quadrant New Year's Eve bash for the Voyager crew.

They exchanged a few other desultory comments on the whereabouts and career milestones of their old crew until the dance ended. Newly-minted (full) Lieutenant Harry Kim made bold to claim his former captain for the next dance, freeing Chakotay to head for the bar.

Champagne glass in hand, he leaned back against the solid oak bar and surveyed the room. The wood-paneled room was far smaller than last year's gleaming ballroom; as Kathryn had noted, the turnout was small as well. Chakotay doubted there were more than a hundred people, crewmembers and dates included. //Getting on with their lives, indeed.// He was not sorry to see that Seven of Nine, so briefly his lover, was among the missing. Had her technological "think tank" given her an offworld assignment, or had she been looking forward to their next encounter with the same lack of enthusiasm he had? Even if he'd known who could answer that question, he wouldn't have asked.

He thought he'd seen B'Elanna and Tom earlier -- yes, there they were on the dance floor, moving together with a lithe grace that belied their recent marital difficulties. He was relieved to see it. He had urged his old friend to try working things out with her husband, sure that no matter how angry B'Elanna might have been (might still be) at Tom's recent workaholic habits, she still loved him and would be happier with him than without him.

The pair swung past in such a way that for the first time Chakotay had a good view of Tom Paris's face. The expression he saw there made him start, disturbed. Tom didn't look happy. He didn't even look uncomfortable. He looked -- angry. Angry and restless. Chakotay remembered the first time he'd seen that look on Tom Paris's face: just before he had hired Tom to pilot for the Maquis. To say the least, that had not been a shining time in Tom Paris's life.

As they turned, B'Elanna's face came into full view. She looked mutinous and frustrated. //Worse and worse.//

With no clear idea of what to do, yet with the sense he should do something, Chakotay took a step forward, and hesitated. He would have been too late in any event. The pair stopped in the center of the dance floor as Tom Paris yanked free of his partner's hands and stalked away from her. He stopped as he came to Chakotay, pulling himself up to his full, considerable height. "Oh, yeah," he spat, "go play rescuer, Chakotay. That's so like you."

"You're drunk, Paris," Chakotay said sharply; the pungent smell of alcohol was clear enough evidence of that.

"Yeah, well, some of us here are perfect, Chakotay. And I guess the rest of us are me." Tom stalked out of the hall with rigid, drunken dignity -- or would have, had not a gleaming black pump shot out from the dance floor to smack him squarely in the back of the head. Firing a deadly look back in the direction of the thrower, Tom stomped out with what self-control he still had.

B'Elanna stood on the dance floor, breathing heavily, glaring after her husband. Hoping to minimize the scene -- and have a private word with his old friend -- Chakotay scooped up the shoe and crossed to her, with the intention of drawing her from the dance floor. "Come on, B'Elanna," he murmured.

"Dance with me," she snapped.

"We need to talk."

She shook off the hand he'd laid on her arm. "Chakotay, if you don't give me something else to do RIGHT NOW, I'm going after that man and kill him."

Because Chakotay was the man he was, he would pretend he didn't see the brightness of those flashing eyes. Silently, he offered her the pump, waiting as she set it on the floor and slipped her foot into it. Then he held out his hands, she stepped forward, and they danced.

The band had begun the next song before she spoke again, her voice determinedly level. "Not very many people here this year."

With a strange sense of déjà vu, he answered, "They've probably moved on with their lives."

She nodded, her countenance still looking as if she were making a resolute effort to keep it steady. Then she sucked in a breath. "Well, look who the cat dragged in."

His back to the door, Chakotay could only guess. "Tom?"

"My dear, dear father-in-law. Excuse me, Chakotay. I have to talk to that son-of-a-bitch." Without waiting for an answer, she pulled out of his arms and headed for the door. He followed her, hovering at a respectful distance, not sure if he should come closer to the confrontation, unable to stay away.

Thus, he was more than close enough to hear the admiral's reply to B'Elanna's angry salutation: "B'Elanna, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. We haven't seen Tom at headquarters in over a month."

Next: "Groundhog Day" (an interlude)


	3. Groundhog Day interlude

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Groundhog Day (an interlude)  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+  
CODES: P, with C & T friendship (implied). Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 3/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
SUMMARY: When B'Elanna moves out, Tom fantasizes about changing the past.

Once, while he was going through net archives looking for his beloved 20th-century pulp movies, Tom Paris had come across an odd title: "Groundhog Day." Even though the archive listings indicated that the film didn't fit into any of his preferred categories, the unusual title had intrigued him (why in the galaxy would anyone make a movie about an arcane holiday based around a never-more-than-half-believed weather prediction phenomenon?), and he'd called it up. It had proved to be a moderately entertaining comedy about a weather forecaster who repeatedly re-lived the arcane holiday until he "got it right," and won the woman of his dreams.

Quaffing his mug of beer, Paris thrust it forward on the bar to signal that he wanted another. Unusually quiet, the tall, slender bartender scooped it up from the smooth wooden surface, and complied with that unspoken request. But of course, neither the aging Frenchwoman nor anyone could grant Tom Paris what he wanted most: he wanted to be that forecaster. Or at the least, he wanted that forecaster's opportunities.

If he could live one day over, his life would be very different. But which day would he choose? Taking a swallow from his re-filled mug, Tom silently contemplated the question.

Maybe he ought to relive the day his father had offered Tom the chance to work with him in special vessel development projects. This time, Tom vowed, he would firmly refuse. He had accepted the offer in the same optimistic spirit in which it had been made: the feeling that, since his relationship with the admiral had so greatly improved, they ought to be able to work together on friendly terms. Regrettably, it seemed that, between Owen and Thomas Paris, familiarity was more likely to breed contempt. Or rather, anger, first in the form of bickering, and later of open arguing.

He had not mentioned the problems to B'Elanna, who was having a hard time coming to terms with John Torres, and seemed happy that Tom was doing so much better with his own father. Owen Paris, of the old school that believed his differences with Tom were between Tom and himself, never breathed a word to B'Elanna either.

Or maybe, Tom thought, he ought to relive the day, last November, when he and his father had had that spectacular blow-up in front of the rest of the development team. Since B'Elanna hadn't known of the deteriorating situation, it would have been hard to tell her just why his father had taken him off the projects and had him reassigned to other work.

As for the new job, it was still flight testing, still work for a skilled pilot, but when one is removed from an admiral's team there are always questions. Perhaps Tom ought to try redoing the day when he had grown tired of the questions, and decided to visit Sandrine's after work to take the edge off his frustrations.

Or perhaps he ought to try reliving the night when, drunk and half-crazy with the things he couldn't (//wouldn't//, he admitted silently) say to B'Elanna, he had spilled his guts to pretty, sympathetic Maliya, there in the back corner of Sandrine's. Pretty, sympathetic, affectionate Maliya.

Or at last chance, he ought to relive New Year's Eve, when he had sought sympathy from Maliya after his quarrel with B'Elanna.

And B'Elanna had found them together. As if (as if?) to make it worse, she'd been accompanied by her own personal paragon of uprightness, honesty, and integrity: Chakotay. Well, at least Chakotay had kept her from putting him in the hospital.

And today B'Elanna and her Native American knight in shining armor had come to Tom's (formerly Tom's, B'Elanna's and Miral's) apartment to collect the last of her and Miral's things. And Tom had not been able to think of a thing to say to stop her. Should he try to relive today? No, screw that; he didn't know how he'd lived through it the first time.

He looked up at the clock behind Sandrine's bar. It was too late to relive today, in any event. Tomorrow had already begun.

He pushed away from the bar. The occasional time-travel anomaly aside, in real life it was always too late to relive today.

But perhaps it wasn't too late to improve tomorrow.

NEXT: B'Elanna and Chakotay return in "Down With Love" (Valentine's Day)


	4. Down With Love

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Down With Love  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+  
CODES: C, T. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 4/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Kathy Speck for an additional plotbunny or so, and to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
DEDICATION: This story is affectionately dedicated to Bob Stouffer, a longtime friend who once, long ago, undertook to comfort me after a painful breakup, much as Chakotay does with B'Elanna here. Though he didn't get (and didn't want) a reward similar to the one Chakotay will get in later chapters of this story, he's still a dear and valued friend.  
SUMMARY: It's B'Elanna's first Valentine's Day since leaving Tom, and Chakotay is determined to keep it from being too painful for her. 

The street vendor smiled as she handed Chakotay three blood-red roses. He supposed it was meant as a conspiratorial smile, offered because she believed she knew his intentions, but he half-suspected it was really because his purchase depleted her stock to the point where she would soon be able to call it a night.

The breeze cooled him as he walked down the street, something that would never have happened on the climate-controlled starship where he'd lived for so long. But the air was fresh, and slightly tangy with sea salt, and as he breathed in deeply he decided once again that he didn't really miss living in that kind of regulated environment. The city lights wouldn't pass for stars, but they twinkled in brilliant array all the same. And though San Francisco would never be mistaken for wilderness even in this enlightened post-urban age, it had a beauty of its own, shaped by sentient minds and long history as well as innate geography.

As he approached, he noted that B'Elanna's apartment building displayed something of the same self-conscious sensibility, with its blend of clean lines and natural-rock outside walls. The wind picked up, and Chakotay thought he detected rain in its scent. He quickened his steps, as precipitation was still something he appreciated more as an observer than as a participant.

The door whooshed closed behind him, and he undid his jacket to better savor the additional degrees of warmth. Another benefit of living in a variable climate, he thought; how could one appreciate warmth when it was always there?

Preferring order and regularity, Seven had disagreed with him about that.

Seven had disagreed with him about a lot of things, actually.

He hadn't come here to think about Seven.

Stepping onto the turbolift, he called, "Sixth floor, east wing." As it carried him to his destination, he reached inside his light jacket and withdrew the box of chocolates he'd purchased earlier. The satin that covered it was deep red, a near-match for the roses -- not that quibbles of color would have much meaning for B'Elanna. Seven, on the other hand, would have been able to tell him by exactly how many degrees of hue and intensity the colors differed. There had been a time when he'd found that faculty oddly endearing, but Seven would have been surprised to realize the brevity of that time.

The lift door opened, blessedly breaking his train of thought. He was here, he reminded himself firmly, to help B'Elanna, and not to indulge any outdated melancholy of his own.

The commlink in his jacket pocket buzzed. "Dammit." He tucked the chocolates under his arm and fumbled the device into his hand. "Yes?"

Her voice came through clearly, almost as if she were standing beside him -- which was near enough to the truth. "Chakotay? It's B'Elanna."

He snorted with amusement, drawing closer to her door. "Hi, B'Elanna. What's up?"

"You busy tonight? Miral's asleep, and I was wondering if maybe you'd like to join me for a late supper here."

He pressed her door signal.

"Oh, hell," she said, sounding distracted. "Someone's here. Hold on a minute." There was a click as if of her commlink being set down on a hard surface, and he deactivated his own, tucking it back into his pocket. Now he heard her voice, more faintly, through the synthmetal of her door. "Dammit, Paris, I told you I didn't want--"

The door whooshed open. When B'Elanna saw who her guest was, she jerked her chin up in clear surprise. "You!"

"Me." He offered a tiny smile. "Since I'm invited, I guess I can come in?"

"I guess." A crooked smile on her own lips, she stood aside to let him enter. He stepped past, looking around as he did so, to see what she'd done with the place in the time since he'd been here last. In truth, she hadn't done much, but it hadn't been long since his last visit and she hadn't had much to work with. Aside from the corner where Miral's toybox and child-sized furniture sat, the living room held little beyond a couch, a low table, a few chairs, and the wooden rocking chair Chakotay himself had made as a baby-shower gift for B'Elanna, back on Voyager.

Though he was reasonably sure she'd guessed the purpose of the chocolates and the flowers, he still made a little ritual of presenting them to her, once the door had closed. "Happy Valentine's Day, B'Elanna." He leaned forward and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek before extending candy to her with one hand and roses with the other.

"Oh!" She seemed surprised and a little flustered by the gifts. "Thanks, Chakotay."

"I figured," he said, fumbling for the words, "well, I figured you were entitled to a little something after -- well, everything." //And I didn't want you to spend this holiday of all holidays sitting around feeling alone,// he thought but did not add. The popular Terran celebration of love and romance WOULD have the cosmically bad timing to take place a scant few weeks after B'Elanna had left her husband.

"Thanks," she said again, and the look in her eyes made him suspect she heard the words he hadn't said as clearly as the ones he had. "You're a good friend, Chakotay."

"I try," he said, trying to let his tone lighten the moment.

"And to think that here I was, hoping I could distract you." When he blinked his incomprehension, she elaborated, "I know this is your first Valentine's Day since you and Seven broke up. I didn't want to see you spend it alone." She walked over quickly to lay his presents on the low table, then returned to give him a hug. "I just wanted you to know that some of us out here still think you're a great guy, and she's an idiot."

Surprised and moved, especially that she had thought of him at a time when she would have had every right to think of no one but herself and Miral, he let his arms enfold her. "Thanks, B'Elanna. You're a pretty good friend yourself." He dropped another quick kiss on her cheek. "And I just want you to know that some of us out here still think you're a hell of a woman, and Tom Paris is a fool."

Her eyes brightened for a moment, but she blinked the brilliance away impatiently. "Well, as long as you think so, why should I let how that idiot flyboy acts bother me?"

He gave her a squeeze, and answered in the same tone. "You're right. To hell with him."

It was her turn to look him in the eye. "And as long as I think you're terrific, why should what that cold bitch thinks bother you?"

He snorted, feeling unacknowledged weight drop away from his heart at his friend's words. "You're right. To hell with her, too."

"To hell with both of them." She loosed him then, and regarded him with a small, defiant smile on her full lips. "In fact, to hell with love. Why don't you join me in the kitchen, Chakotay? We'll a drink a little toast before supper. To friendship."

"Sounds good to me." Every romantic relationship either of them had ever had ended up shipwrecked sooner or later, but their friendship had carried them through every storm. //To friendship, indeed.//

Shaking his head, smiling himself, he followed her to the kitchen.

Next: "Luck of the Klingons" (St. Patrick's Day. No, really!)


	5. Luck of the Klingons

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Luck of the Klingons  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+  
CODES: C, T. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 5/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Kathy Speck gets the blame for this one! Chakotay and B'Elanna not being Irish, I wasn't even going to do a St. Patrick's Day story until Kathy came up with the plotbunny that led to this. Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing, and to Will Speck and Dan Warman for naming my Klingon characters.  
SUMMARY: B'Elanna teaches Chakotay about a Klingon holiday.

Chakotay smiled as he watched B'Elanna attack her hamburger with the ferocity of a predator bringing down its prey. He hadn't been a meat-eater since before his Academy days, but whether or not he cared for B'Elanna's choice in food, it would have been hard not to appreciate the zeal with which she consumed it.

Reminded of how hungry he was himself, he set upon his cobb salad with matching fervor. One thing he had noticed, in the years since returning to Earth, was how much more flavor the familiar Terran vegetables seemed to have now that he usually ate them fresh instead of replicated. Chakotay knew plenty of people who would have insisted there was no difference between fresh and replicated foods, and indeed that was the theory. His tastebuds argued differently.

Hunger assuaged, he leaned back in his seat and took a swallow of his cider. "Thanks for dinner, B'Elanna."

She looked up and smiled back at him, for a moment relenting in her assault on the fries. "Hey, sure thing. Next time we both end up working late, it's your turn, okay?"

"Sure." He tilted his mug back, draining it dry. He would have been willing to do the honors this time, if B'Elanna hadn't said she needed to get Miral home and into bed.

"Dessert?" B'Elanna offered around a mouthful of fries.

"No thanks, I'm good." He thought about a cup of coffee, but rejected the notion; he had lost his Starfleet-bred caffeine tolerance and it was a bit late in the day. Instead he poured himself a second helping of cider, savoring the taste. According to the label the beverage was fresh-pressed, not replicated; he would have guessed that much from the genuine earthy tang.

As B'Elanna pursued the last of her fries, he regarded her silently. She had been more sober and serious than usual these last few months. Not that she didn't have reason, he conceded, but he knew that when someone had suffered from depression in the past, she or he was more likely to suffer it in the future. He had missed the signs before, back on Voyager, but he was determined not to let her down in that way now. If she ended up clinically depressed again as a result of her separation with Tom, Chakotay would give her all the help he could. If what he could give wasn't enough, he would make sure she got any other help she needed.

Still, he thought, that zesty appetite argued well.

B'Elanna chased her vanquished meal with her own mug of cider. "Ahh. That was good." A frown crossed her face, as if at a sudden thought. "Oh, hell."

"What is it?"

"I forgot to see if Miral's purple shirt still fits her. She'll need it for tomorrow."

"She will?"

B'Elanna gave him a look. "Don't tell me you forgot tomorrow is ChuQun Jaw Day."

"ChuQun Jaw Day?" Chakotay struggled with the unfamiliar Klingon syllables. "What's that?"

"You don't know?" She snorted. "And you call yourself an anthropologist."

"Are you going to laugh at me, or are you going to tell me?" Well, that was just great. He'd forgotten some special Klingon holiday. Good thing she had said something, or DaChut, his Klingon colleague, would probably never have let him live it down.

She started with the former, but at his affronted look, she curbed her burst of laughter. "Okay, I can do both. You really never heard of ChuQun Jaw?"

"No, I really never did. Who was he?"

"Only one of the greatest Klingon heroes. I can't believe a hotshot cultural expert like you never heard of him. My mother used to tell me about him when I was Miral's age."

"B'Elanna." He was getting impatient.

"Okay, okay." She held up her hands in a pacifistic gesture. "Most people in the Federation don't know it, but the K-7 Incident wasn't the first time Klingons had ever run into tribbles." Chakotay knew what the K-7 Incident was, of course. Back in the 23rd Century, Federation Space Station K-7 had been the site of a legendary clash between a Federation starship, a Klingon cruiser, and what eventually became thousands of small, voracious -- but to humans, incredibly cute -- creatures known as tribbles. The furry little animals hadn't been seen anywhere in the Federation for almost a century after that. Not too long ago, though, another Federation space station -- Deep Space Seven or Eight, he thought -- had suddenly become infested with them, no one knew how. (Chakotay suspected a Customs screw-up.)

But she was right, he had never heard of any Klingon encounters with them before K-7. "Go on."

"Way back in our history -- long enough ago that nobody's really sure when -- there were tribbles on the Klingon homeworld itself." Chakotay blinked. Tribbles were a non-sentient species that originated from an entirely different planet than did Klingons. Prior to Klingon space flight, how could tribbles have come to QuonoS? But she was going on, "Brave warriors vanquished some with torches and flaming arrows, but the tribbles bred quickly, like the vermin they are. Soon the whole planet was crawling with them. Fields and forests were covered with pulsing, shrieking balls of fur."

B'Elanna's eyes were only partly focused, as if she were summoning the words out of memory. "Finally the emperor cried, 'Will no one rid me of these troublesome pests?' And brave ChuQun Jaw stepped forward. 'On the honor of my House,' he said, "'I will.' He summoned up his war band, and they went forth, driving their foes off of the land with clubs and with fire, until not one tribble remained.

"So the emperor and the people honored him and his House, and let his fame be spread. Even now, Klingons celebrate his memory by wearing purple on his holiday." She blinked, shook her head, and visibly came back to the present. "Sound familiar now?"

"Uh, yeah." It sure did; in fact, it sounded just like a bastardized version of the Terran legend of Saint Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland. But Chakotay looked at her earnest eyes and decided not to point out the resemblance. It would, he thought, also be a bad idea to mention a certain Klingon cultural propensity for adopting legends or literary works they admired, and then passing them off as their own. Outside of scholarly circles, few Klingons even now believed that Shakespeare had actually been a denizen of Earth and written his famous works in English; any historical evidence to that effect was dismissed as partisan fabrication. ChuQun Jaw was probably about on the same level. "Yeah, that sounds familiar," he said finally, the words truthful if incomplete.

The conversation passed to other topics.

On his way home, Chakotay made a mental note to do some research on the legend of ChuQun Jaw. But the hour was late, and he could certainly postpone that until tomorrow.

The next day, as he was entering his office at the university, Chakotay saw his Klingon colleague, Professor DaChut, walking down the corridor. "Happy ChuQun Jaw Day, DaChut," he called cheerfully (thinking, 'I know MY Klingon holidays!').

DaChut looked at him, clearly baffled. "What are you talking about, Chakotay?"

Some minutes later Chakotay finally made it into his office, grateful that flaming cheeks were hard to detect against his complexion. His first act was to activate his computer and text a short message to his supper companion of the night before.

It read, "Three words, Torres: APRIL FOOL'S DAY."

Next: "Every New Beginning" (spring equinox)


	6. Every New Beginning

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Every New Beginning  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 6/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The equinox ritual Chakotay participates in is based on an Ojibway ritual described in the blog "The Sacred Pipe." (I know Chakotay's father's people are Central American, but his mother's may not be.) Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing this story.  
SUMMARY: Chakotay feels profoundly connected to his heritage when he celebrates a Native American spring equinox ritual. But with whom can he share his feelings? 

His mother's people sang the season in, as they had done since time out of memory. This year, for the first time in all of his life, Chakotay sang the ancient chants with them. He sang strongly and surely, the words rising out of some cradle of memory, as if his mother had gifted them as his birthright. Perhaps she had.

Tobacco, the sacred herb, teased his unaccustomed nostrils, and sweat poured from his body as he sat there in the sweat lodge; he savored the heat, if not the smell. The beat of a deep-toned drum mimicked that of his heart, and underscored the chant. In those hours out of time Chakotay of Dorvan was no longer the former Maquis, the former Starfleet officer, the university instructor who taught cultures that his civilized agnostic students could never fully comprehend. Instead he was the son of his mother, the son of his People, the son of the Earth. Primal Human and primal Man.

He emerged from the sweat lodge cleansed and exalted. Someone offered him a cylindrical vessel, and he drank deeply, the sweetish tea strengthening and grounding him. Regarding the artfully arranged and carefully prepared foods, he selected some fresh spring greens, eschewing the roasted meat in honor of his own personal custom. The tender young plants were a little bitter, but he savored them anyhow, knowing that his ancestors had sampled the first fruits of spring in just such a way.

Some time later, showered and dressed in his everyday 24th-century garb, he walked through the cool evening air along a winding trail. A kilometer or so later, he reached the nearest transport station, where the familiar lines of the modern equipment seemed alien and out of place. Stepping quickly to the platform, he closed his eyes, the better to keep his mind's sight focused on the timeless place he had just departed.

Habituated to transport as he was, the sensations of it did not disrupt his thoughts, and he opened his eyes, unsurprised, as he reached his destination. Long strides brought him to his apartment in just a few minutes. Once within, he closed the door and his eyes, letting the sound and the sight and the feel of the ritual hold him a little while longer in their sway.

He felt...whole, complete, in a way he had not known in a long time -- in a way, perhaps, that he had never known. For so much of his life he had fought to reconcile the two sides of his nature: the 24th-century scientist and explorer whose heart was in the stars, and the man of the People whose soul was bound to the soil. But now, his seven years amidst more distant stars than most humans had ever known (combined, to be sure, with two decades in Starfleet and additional years with the Maquis) had sated his hunger for space, and his work at the University was enough to satisfy his yearning for knowledge. And here, on Earth, he could reconnect with the land and the People.

The only thing he could wish was someone with whom to share this: his wholeness, his happiness, his life. The tribal circle had welcomed him, but of course most of the men and women of his own age (and more than a decade below) were already married or partnered, a fact only emphasized by their very traditional plans to celebrate life and fertility after the equinox ritual. And in any event, people who had lived all their lives close to the land, much as they could -- and gladly had -- given him, could only understand one side of Chakotay: the son of the People.

Just as the women in his life had only ever understood the other side of him: the star-man. He called those women to mind easily, having thought of them during his time in the sweat lodge, as he sang the songs celebrating the Eternal Female, the Primal Mother. Sveta, who had loved and left him in the Academy, then returned to recruit him to the Maquis. Annalise, the brilliant scientist and fellow officer with whom he'd shared a brief, torrid affair in his first starship assignment. Seska, who had connected with his anger at the darkest time of his life, only to betray him when he sought to let go of that anger and that time.

Kathryn, to give her credit, had actually made an effort to understand the man beneath the officer, asking to learn more about spirit guides. He wondered if that interest in his faith had been part of what drew him to her, back then. But the interest had proven short-lived, and more intellectual than heartfelt; the only faith she truly cherished was in science. And he did not know if he ought to consider her in this company anyway; there were times when he suspected his romantic interest in her had been more one-sided than not.

As for Riley Frasier -- he spat as he thought of the ex-Borg who had tried to persuade him that a bond of sorts existed between him, but who had only wanted to use him.

Seven. In some ways, it was still hard to think about her. Despite their difficult start, by the end of Voyager's mission Chakotay had thought -- had hoped -- that there were the makings of a real tie, a permanent tie, between them. She had been willing to take risks for their relationship, including disabling a Borg device that protected her from the upheavals of love. Like him, she had come a long way from her beginnings, and along a difficult route. She had even demonstrated an unusual (for 24th-century humans, especially scientists) capacity for reverence, in her worship of the Omega particle.

For a while after their return to the Alpha Quadrant, shared adversity had provided another common ground between them: ex-Borg, like ex-Maquis, were not much loved of Starfleet Command or the general populace. But the union of feeling that had held them together through their respective legal travails had dissolved once those travails began to ease. He did not know if her dismissal of his particular form of belief ("a pastiche of primitive, nature-worshipping rituals and superstitions") had been the final straw for their relationship, but it had certainly not helped.

So he was alone. Well, there were worse fates; he would rather be alone and whole, than connected to another but fragmented in himself.

He was smiling in bemusement at his momentary descent into self-pity when he heard his commlink sound. Wanting to continue his ritual-based reverie, he let it go to voice-mail, and heard a familiar voice: "Hey, old man, I was wondering how the Equinox ritual went. Or did you forget, you promised to tell me about it?"

B'Elanna Torres. His smile widened as the voice prompted certain revelations. B'Elanna Torres, his longest and most trusted friend. Even more to the point, B'Elanna Torres, the brilliant 24th-century engineer who had once risked her life to honor the gods of her foremothers. Who, Chakotay knew, now celebrated the Day of Honor every year. Who had had a Klingon Naming Ceremony for her daughter in addition to the Human one.

B'Elanna Torres, who knew what it felt like to balance a life in the contemporary world with a faith in the timeless gods of one's ancestors.

B'Elanna Torres, who might not be Chakotay's lover, but who had long been a woman he cherished.

Silently thanking the spirits for his blessings, he reached for the commlink and activated it.

Next: "Paranoia Will Destroy Ya" (April Fool's Day)


	7. Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Paranoia Will Destroy Ya  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: T, with C mostly implied. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 7/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing, and to Chuck, my favorite Evil Genius.  
SUMMARY: A few weeks ago, B'Elanna successfully pranked Chakotay. On April Fool's Day, she just knows he's going to make her pay for that. 

When B'Elanna's alarm sounded a wake-up call that April 1, she checked the time against the display on her newsnet connection. It looked as if the time was correct.

She had set the alarm early so that she'd have plenty of time to check the hardware and software on her apartment replicator. She didn't think Chakotay would have had time or opportunity to fiddle with the device, but best to play it safe. The replicator checked out fine, and produced a cup of raktajino just the way B'Elanna liked it.

She stood well back when she activated the mechanism to open her apartment door. Nothing happened. Cautiously, she poked her head out the door and looked up, down, and side-to-side. Still nothing. She took Miral's hand and went to the lift. She figured it was pretty unlikely that he'd have set a trap in the building's public areas, where it might take out innocent bystanders. She was right; he hadn't.

Taking the lift to her building's garage area, she walked quickly toward her hovercar. Hmm. Nothing in the area around it, above it, or below it. She stepped back as she activated the door-opening mechanism, but nothing happened other than the door opening, just as programmed. Setting Miral into the child seat, B'Elanna activated the toddler's safety restraints, and got into the car herself. The drive to work, like all else so far, was uneventful.

It occurred to her that Chakotay might have worked some mischief at the child-care center, such as telling them that Miral wouldn't be in today. But David, the center manager, welcomed little Miss Paris in with his customary good humor, and said nothing to suggest that.

B'Elanna took the lift to her workroom. Again, she was pretty sure the common area would be safe enough, and it was. So was the workroom itself, where her assistants were already hard at work on her latest design. Her own office, she thought, might be another matter.

She said nothing of her suspicions to her subordinates, of course. They would only have assured her that the building's security was so good it would have been impossible for Chakotay to even make it all the way to her office, let alone to set up some prank for her there. As far as B'Elanna was concerned, that would only have proven how little they knew him. Wishing for a tricorder, she triggered her door cautiously, swinging around to direct an instruction to a subordinate just at the moment that it opened. Nothing happened, and she turned back and went in.

Once the door was closed, she made a thorough search of the office. Nothing on or under or above her worktable. Nothing on or under or above her desk. Her tools were undisturbed, still lined up in the gleaming array in which she'd left them yesterday. Her computer -- ? Remembering some of the unexpected talents he had shown in their old days with the Maquis, she ran a diagnostic. Best not to take any chances.

Still nothing. Reassured for the moment, she sat down and got to work.

Only to jump half a meter when her door signal sounded. "Package for you, Ms. Torres."

The words set her warrior's senses on alert. "Bring it in, Paul."

Her most junior assistant carried in a parcel of about half-a-meter by a quarter-meter, neatly wrapped and bearing the "GanyTech" logo. Well, she had been expecting something from GanyTech and the logo did look authentic, but still... "Want me to open it, Ms. Torres?" Paul asked, oblivious to her speculations.

"What? Oh, no, no. I'll get it." If this was from Chakotay, she was sure -- well, pretty sure -- that it wouldn't contain anything that would actually harm an innocent bystander. Even so, she didn't want to be pranked in front of her staff. Paul exited, and she donned protective gloves and goggles before activating her small package-opening laser. No, wait, she always used the laser. What if the package's contents were laser-triggered? She deactivated the device and set it aside. After a few minutes of rummaging in her drawer, she found a little metal cutter. Wrappings neatly parted, and fell aside to reveal...

Scale models of her latest hovercar design, which were just what she had ordered from GanyTech. She cautiously activated one, and it performed exactly as she had meant it to. This really was her GanyTech order, then. She watched the little model and its twin fly for a few minutes, making performance notes. Then she deactivated them and began to work on a preliminary report.

Distracted, she corrected some typos, then, on more careful consideration, rewrote most of a paragraph. //Dammit, what's he got planned? When's the other shoe going to drop?// But nothing else arrived, nothing else happened, until lunchtime.

When the lunch order arrived, she took her portion into her office and examined it minutely. Chakotay did know her office's favorite eatery to order from, after all, and he would have had a pretty good guess as to which of the several entrees was hers. Dissected grain-by-grain and chunk-by-chunk, however, her General Tso's chicken turned out to be no more than it seemed. It was still pretty good eating, though.

She knew something was going to happen. She just knew it. But what? When?

When the flowers arrived for her, she was sure that was it. Hell, Chakotay's name was even on the card. "Hope you're having a wonderful springtime," the card read. //Yeah. Right.// A few minutes after that, stems, leaves, and petals lay in a tidy pile on B'Elanna's desk. But aside from a handful of tissue paper, there was nothing else to be found.

Paul came in, carrying a glass vase. "Thought you might have some use for this," he said, then goggled in astonishment at the dissected flowers, and fled her office without a word. //Oh, swell. Now they're going to think I've cracked.//

Work ended. Nothing outside her office door, nothing in the hallways or the lifts. Nothing at child care. She checked around, over, and under her hovercar, ignoring Miral's querulous "Mommy?" Still nothing. There was nothing inside it, either -- not on the dash nor in the seats nor under the hood nor in the tiny trunk.

Okay then. Back to her apartment building, where she carefully examined the wiring on the replicator yet again. Chakotay had significant time gaps between some of his classes, after all, and she knew from the old days that he was certainly capable of finding a way into her apartment, whether or not it was locked. When the hardware looked good, she ran another diagnostic. Still good. So she programmed herself and Miral some dinner, checking the chairs (seat and legs) at the table before she sat down. Then she parked Miral in the living room with a holostorybook, and investigated the rest of the apartment. Nothing in any of the windows, cupboards, or drawers. Nothing in, on or under the furniture. Nothing on the ceilings, nothing in the corners, nothing under the carpets. Nothing in the sinks, or the shower stall, or the beds. (She checked the pillows and under the blankets and mattresses, just to be sure.)

It wasn't until after she had put Miral to bed that an idea suddenly struck her.

He hadn't done anything, had he? Well, anything other than to make her paranoid, with his promise of retaliation for her St. Patrick's Day prank. "Why, that son of a bitch," she murmured, chuckling with unwilling admiration. She should have known that was just the sort of tactic to which someone with his cracked sense of humor would resort. //He just sat back and put his feet up, and let me spend the whole day sweating.//

She was still chuckling when she called him up on the commlink. "Chakotay, you're really a jerk, do you know that?"

He put on his most innocent butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-Maquis-mouth expression. "I don't know what you're talking about, B'Elanna."

"Sure you don't. You set me up to spend the whole day being paranoid for nothing, didn't you?"

The innocent expression held for another moment, and then he smirked. "Worked well, didn't it?"

"And you knew it would, too, didn't you?" He only chuckled. Damn, it was impossible to stay mad at him when he did that. He probably knew it, too. "Oh, all right, you got me. Oh, and thanks for the flowers, even if they were part of your stupid joke."

"I don't suppose they survived the day," he teased.

"Nope. But they did make my office smell nice. Well, catch you later, Chakotay."

"Catch you later, B'Elanna."

She headed for the bathroom then. After the day she'd had, she really needed a hot, steamy, relaxing shower. Shedding clothes as she went, she shook her head over the ease with which he'd taken her in. //I really should be more suspicious of him.// She stepped into the shower stall, and pushed the activation button. Seconds later, she slapped the activation button off, swearing and shivering. Dammit, she really should be more suspicious of him.

He had reset her default water temperature to ice water.

Next: John Torres performs his "Easter Duty."


	8. Easter Duty

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Easter Duty  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+  
CODES: None. Future chapters will be C/T.  
PART: 8/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for general betaing, and to Kathy Speck for letting me draw on her expertise and experience in Roman Catholicism, particularly the sacrament formally known as Reconciliation.  
NOTE: In this story, I have assumed that some not-so-minor changes in the structure of the Roman Catholic Church might happen over the next 300 years. No disrespect to that faith is intended.  
SUMMARY: In the confessional, John Torres admits to his shortcomings as a father. But he learns that confession is not enough.

"Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned."

John Torres was not a particularly observant Roman Catholic; he typically attended Mass less than once a month, and received sacraments only during the major Church holiday seasons. But he had been reared in the faith, and he knew and believed in its theology and its rituals. And this Easter season, there was one ritual, one sacrament, of which he stood in particular need. Thus he had slipped into a dim and secluded confessional booth, and taken his seat facing a dark, stern-looking woman in clerical black, her iron-gray hair drawn up into a tight bun.

"Yes, my son?" she prompted, when he did not continue.

He had rehearsed this conversation in his mind a dozen times before entering the confessional, and yet the words were still hard to speak. "I'm not much of a father," he said finally. "I've let my daughter down."

"In what way?" The priest's tone was neutral.

"Well, I just found out that she and her husband are separated. They've been separated three months," it was hard to keep the bitterness from his tone, "and I only just found out."

The memory of how he had learned that fact burned shamefully in his mind: he had been talking via commlink to a friend who worked for FedFlight, the same company which employed B'Elanna. The friend, Manuelo Connelly, had expressed his sympathy for B'Elanna. "I'll tell you, John, everybody says she's a fine woman, and a hell of an engineer. It's a damned shame that husband of hers didn't know how to appreciate her."

Surprised but hiding it (he hoped), John had agreed that it was, indeed, a shame, and joined Manuelo in questioning Tom Paris's judgment. After the call had broken off, John had gone to his computer and did a search on his daughter. In moments, he saw on the screen that B'Elanna Torres, resident of San Francisco, former Maquis, and erstwhile chief engineer of the famous Voyager, had filed for legal separation from her husband, Thomas Paris. In January. Three months ago.

His daughter had left her husband, and John Torres learned about it on the Federation News Net.

"You're not in regular contact with your daughter, then." Mother Josefina's smooth contralto recalled him to the present.

"No. No, wait, that's not quite right," he amended, for if one couldn't be honest about one's faults in a confessional, then there was little point in being there. "I'm not in contact with my daughter at all."

"I see."

"I haven't been -- I -- it was a lot easier when she was off-Earth, you see. Or maybe the only reason it even worked then was that we hadn't talked in so long that neither of us wanted to say anything to make the other one angry. Not that there was really enough time to pick a fight when we talked. Three minutes was all we ever got." Three minutes, and half of that first time eaten up with awkwardness. He'd been terrified she would reject him outright (and only summoned his courage to risk it because he had feared so long that she was dead that he had to see her now he knew she was alive), and she'd been shy in a way that seemed most unlike the fierce girl he remembered.

"There was another long period when you didn't speak to your daughter, then."

He lowered his eyes, ashamed. "Not since I left her mother."

"You and your daughter quarreled when you left?"

"I guess we did," he murmured, "but she was only a girl then, she didn't know, she couldn't understand." Couldn't understand that he had been afraid then too, afraid that he wasn't strong enough, wasn't ENOUGH to live with a wife and a daughter both driven by the volatile passions of Klingons. "I left her with her mother. And I thought -- I thought it would be easier for her if I didn't -- didn't contact her."

"Is that what you thought?"

"No," he whispered. "I thought it would be easier for me." If he had tried to reach B'Elanna, Miral might have intercepted the message, interrupted the commcall, might have assailed him with her catalogue of his faults, his weaknesses, his human frailties. Even if he had gotten through to B'Elanna -- she'd been angry with him before he had ever left. Why should he think that she'd want to talk to him?

And yet, she had put his name on the "permitted contacts" list, back when Starfleet had finally succeeded in establishing a communications link with Voyager. So it seemed that she had, indeed, wanted to talk to him.

With the perspective of more than twenty years gone, he knew that he, a grown man, had failed to reach out all those years mostly because he'd feared the anger -- the rejection -- of a little girl.

No wonder Miral had thought him a coward.

"I see. And why are you not in contact with her now?" the priest probed softly.

Because, he tried not to think, he was a coward still. "She -- after she came back to Earth," //and after she got out of prison,// he thought but did not add, "she invited me to visit her and her family. She'd had a baby while she was away, you see." A baby named for her grandmother but so like her own mother that the sight had almost taken John Torres's breath away. He drew in a deep breath. "And we got to talking about the old days, she and I.

"Well, that conversation didn't end in three minutes, did it. And she had plenty of time to let me know how much I'd failed her. And her husband, he -- he tried to calm her down at first, but I had the feeling he would have just as soon seen me on a spit." Tom Paris's voice had stayed even, but his eyes had flashed the blue of hottest flames every time he looked at John. "And then she told me to get out. So I did."

"And you haven't contacted her since?"

"What would be the point?" he asked, a little bitterly.

"My son," and Mother Josefina looked him directly in the eyes, "you don't need to try to convince me that you think your choice was justified."

That was an unexpected enough response to startle him. "Excuse me?"

"If you truly believed that, you wouldn't be telling me about it here."

He snorted in rueful acknowledgment of the hit. "No, I guess not."

"Then you know what you need to do, to atone for your actions and inactions. Don't you?" Her voice was soft but definite.

He shook his head. "You want me to try to talk to her again. But I can't. I don't know how." At any rate, he didn't know how to do it in a way that would keep his head firmly planted on his neck.

"My son," the priest said firmly. "All beings know fear. Our Lord himself knew fear, when he walked among us in human flesh. It is no sin to be afraid. But you may not make fear the king in your soul. Only one Being should hold that place." He bowed his head, but shook it again, resisting.

"When you leave here, my son, I want you first to pray for courage. Call on the Lord, the son of Mary and the foster son of Joseph, to give you strength to heal the wound in your own family. His strength never fails those who trust in it.

"Then yes, you need to go to your daughter."

His jaw dropped. "And what will I do when she kicks me out? Again."

"Then you forgive her, and you go back."

"No." He half-rose from the chair, as if he could physically escape the words. "I -- I can't."

The priest was implacable. "There is no other way, my son."

He closed his eyes and sighed, pushing the gray-black hair back from his forehead with one distracted hand. "All right, I'll try." He opened his eyes and saw her nodding, in agreement and approval.

"And if you think there's a chance she won't let you in, I may have an idea that would help. You said she had a young child?"

Four days later, John Torres sounded the door signal of B'Elanna's apartment. He was carrying an Easter basket and a bright-pink stuffed targ.

Next: Back to our regularly-scheduled B'Elanna and Chakotay stories, with an as-yet-untitled Cinco de Mayo tale.


	9. The Puebla Incident

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: The Puebla Incident  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 9/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing this story in time for me to post it on the appropriate date, even though I didn't send it to her until Quatro de Mayo! You're the best, Diane.  
SUMMARY: At a Cinco de Mayo celebration, Chakotay has an unexpected reaction to seeing the Mexican victory reenacted. 

"Your father came back again?" Chakotay swallowed the remnants of his sweet camote, looking sideways at the woman who walked through the streets of Puebla with him. B'Elanna Torres looked cool and somehow exotic in her short-sleeved shirt and knee-length shorts, but her expression betrayed discomfort.

She nodded in answer to his question. "Third time." She shook her head. "I don't know, Chakotay. Maybe he really IS serious about getting back into my life."

Chakotay considered it. If she was right, and John Torres was sincere in his wish to reconcile with the daughter he'd abandoned decades ago, that would be the best thing to happen to B'Elanna in ages -- far and away the best thing since her separation from Tom Paris. If she was wrong, though, or (more likely) the elder Torres simply lacked the tenacity to persist, he had the power to hurt B'Elanna deeply, and at a time when she was most vulnerable.

But John HAD made a third attempt, even though his first two had ended in bodily ejection from his daughter's apartment. Surely that was reason for optimism. "Maybe he is," Chakotay allowed. "What did you do this time?"

B'Elanna shook her head, looking bemused. (Perhaps, Chakotay thought, at her own desire to trust the parent who'd once betrayed her.) "I let him in."

"You did?" Chakotay was pleasantly surprised. "How did it work out?"

"We talked a little."

"B'Elanna!"

"Well, we did."

"AND?"

She assayed a tiny smile, as if trying it on for size. "He's coming back next Saturday. He says." The qualification revealed that, even now, she couldn't bring herself to fully accept John Torres's word.

Chakotay smiled his own happiness at her good news. "That's great, B'Elanna. Let me know what happens."

"Count on it. Hey, what's that sound up ahead?"

He identified the telltale noises of an old-fashioned battle without hesitation. "The reenactment's started." They quickened their pace, or tried to; the crowds around them were dense enough that the attempt didn't really speed their progress. Nonetheless, they were only a few blocks away, so they still got to the scene of activity in short order. By skilled use of elbows and heels, they managed to work their way near the front of the crowd of onlookers.

Chakotay watched in fascination as the two units of soldiers -- one group in the elegantly cut dark-blue jackets and tall distinctive caps of Napoleon's army, the somewhat-smaller other side in a ragtag assortment of uniforms and low kepi hats -- exchanged mock rifle fire. On the fringes of the fight, opposing soldiers occasionally got close enough to resort to swordplay, brutal crashes of metal-on-metal that looked and sounded nothing like sport fencing. Soladeros, women in brightly striped skirts and flowered hats, moved in and out of the chaos, succoring the wounded and offering the men of both sides small needed supplies such as ammunition and freshly-filled canteens.

Of course the reenactment couldn't be totally accurate; the Battle of Puebla had ranged well beyond the tiny square of El Zocalo. But within the limits of their staging, the reenactors had actually put together a somewhat realistic (if improbably bloodless) display. Chakotay coughed as the acrid gunpowder-like smoke seared his nostrils, blinked away tears as it dried his eyes. In front of him, he heard B'Elanna cough as well.

Chakotay knew enough of war to be no aficionado of it, in its historical or contemporary forms. But the anthropologist in him (not to mention the descendant of mestizos) was delighted to see such pains taken to recreate a significant event in local history. Of course, here in the town where the famous battle had actually taken place, the reenactment was itself a long-standing tradition.

B'Elanna, clearly caught up in the events they were witnessing, bellowed a warning as a well-clad soldier took aim at his shabbier opponent. The Mexican defender dove for cover in response to her cry, and the French attacker threw her an irritated look. B'Elanna put a hand in front of her mouth, and Chakotay was willing to bet that if he could have seen her face, she would have looked chagrinned. He also noted, however, that she made no apology for her partisanship.

It was a partisanship that even Chakotay had to eventually admit he shared. He couldn't deny his rapt attention, nor his surge of joy as he watched a young, dark-haired man (clearly meant for Mexican general Ignacio Zaragoza) direct his "troops" to encircle and eliminate a key French position, while a resplendent but dust-covered French general (Charles de Lorencez, surely) tried vainly to head the Mexicans off. //Get out of our country!// The thought thrummed in Chakotay's brain just as it might have in those of his far-distant ancestors. //Get off our land!//

No one left the plaza as the afternoon rains began; the precipitation was as integral to the mock battle as it had been to the real one. The French advantage of superior equipment lost value against less-well-armed fighters who understood the weather and the terrain. B'Elanna cheered as the Mexican upper hand became more evident. And though he was quieter about it, so did Chakotay.

Before a Mexican victory could be won on the "field," though, a truce was called and the "armies" moved to the sidelines so that the two generals (Chakotay discovered he had been right: the well-dressed "Frenchman" was indeed supposed to be Imperial Commanding General Charles de Lorencez) could duel personally. Before long, "Zaragoza" smashed the sword from "Lorencez's" hand, to general cheers and applause. Then the victor extended a hand to help the vanquished to his feet, both men bowed to their audience, and the reenactment was over.

The crowd began to disperse, heading toward the waiting game booths, food stalls, and dance displays.

Chakotay didn't know how long he'd stood there, looking out onto the emptying plaza, when he felt B'Elanna tug at his arm. "Chakotay? Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said, though he didn't feel it -- or indeed, much of anything.

"You're not. What's wrong? Tell me."

He forced the words out, oddly reluctant to disillusion her about the results of a conflict 500 years in the past. "They lost the war, you know."

"What are you talking about? They kicked Imperial ass!"

"They won the battle," he corrected quietly. "They lost the war."

"You mean, the French took over Mexico?"

He nodded, unaccountably saddened. A part of him knew that wasn't the whole story, that the Puebla victory had given Mexico's elected government the chance to avoid capture, and had given the Mexican people the will to resist until they, in their turn, drove out the European invaders. Most of him didn't care. The gallant fighters portrayed here this day had lived to see their land conquered and ruled, trapped beneath the boot of their enemy.

Not that he knew anyone like that.

After a moment, seeming to understand his state of mind, Torres slipped under his arm and gave him a hug, her lithe body warm against his larger one even through their wet garments. "Hey, old man," she said softly. "Didn't the Empire lose in the end?"

He sighed and admitted, "Yeah. Yeah, they did."

"Well, okay then." She held him for a moment, until he felt his melancholy began to ease.

"Hey," he murmured, "thanks."

"Any time." She held him a moment longer.

And he stepped away, distracted from his sadness suddenly and in a way she had probably not anticipated. "Let's go get some dinner," he said abruptly.

"Okay," she agreed, looking a little surprised. Taking his hand, she led him toward the food booths, where the pungent scent of spices clashed, not unpleasantly, with the rich aroma of chocolate. He followed obediently, his thoughts neither on the battle nor on the food.

B'Elanna's hug had been that of a sister. But his body had clearly registered a salient fact: as dear as B'Elanna was to him -- and that was very dear -- she was NOT his sister.

NEXT: "Whatever Mama Wants, Mama Gets" (Mother's Day)


	10. Whatever Mama Wants, Mama Gets

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Whatever Mama Wants, Mama Gets  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 10/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing this story.  
SUMMARY: Dreams of his mother prompt Chakotay to visit his estranged sister, Lukaya, who lives among the Rubber Tree People. 

Before this year's graduation exercises, back when he was grading scores of papers and projects and calculating final grades, Chakotay, anthropology instructor, had colored his moments of relaxation by making plans for the university year's end. Some of them had been purely recreational (though as to that, he doubted whether he actually had the price of a trip to Risa), and some of them had been in his field of study (perhaps he could have tagged along on DaChut's planned excursion to the temples of Nova Mundus), and some of them had been for the sake of pursuing old friends (he never HAD found out what his old Academy roommate was up to). All of them, as he recalled, had had one thing in common: they hadn't involved tramping his way through a Central American jungle.

Oh, well. At least it wasn't as hot as he remembered.

Trudging weary-footed along behind his lanky, taciturn guide, Chakotay held on to that meager consolation. Of course, the last time he had come to the land of the Rubber Tree People, it had been high summer, and hot and humid enough to make even a son of Dorvan think twice or thrice about having left the air-conditioned comfort of the nearest hotel.

That time he had come at the behest (no, call it command, for that was what it had been) of his father, Kolopak. This time he had come because he had dreamed of his mother, Sokanon. He had dreamed memories of her, and they were so strong and real it was as if he was living them again.

* * *

"And the boys are going down to the field to see if we can find any bones from the beings who lived here before us and can I go?" Ten-year-old Chakotay gave his mother his best pleading look, with all his heart willing her to say "Yes." 

Sokanon, wife of Kolopak and mother of Chakotay and Lukaya, considered the matter thoughtfully. But then, she had always been the most deliberate person in the village -- a trait Chakotay might approve of when her deliberations resulted in the answers he wanted, no matter how unconventional or untraditional, but one he seldom appreciated during the process. "You will be back for supper?" she said, at last.

"Yes, yes, of course." He was willing to promise anything, if only he could get to go.

"You will take good care of your tools?"

"You know I will." Tools were on the short list of things which Chakotay respected and was himself deliberate about; they were far too essential for his explorations, and far too hard to replace when they were damaged or broken.

"You will take your sister?" She indicated six-year-old Lukaya, who wore two long braids, a homespun dress, and a look of avid fascination.

"WHAT?" He was dismayed. "But she's just a baby!"

"I am NOT!" Lukaya said indignantly.

"Yes, you are!"

"Chakotay, you know how fascinated your sister is with anything that interests you." Sokanon's firm, quiet voice put an end to the argument. "And you've hardly spent any time with her today. If you take her, then you may go."

"MOTHER!"

"She is of your blood, Chakotay. She will be your sister after all your friends have gone their own ways." His mother was unbending. "I mean it, Chakotay. Both of you go, or neither of you do."

* * *

Sokanon stepped through the doorway and into her teenage son's room. Even at well past forty, she was a handsome woman, tall and unbowed, with shining hair and perfect cheekbones. She was thoughtful where her husband was intuitive, introverted where he was gregarious, restrained where he was expressive. Those who knew her (which, to some degree, included all of her home village) thought her son was far more like her than he was like his sire. 

And yet it was that son, that personality-dual, with whom she was clearly angry. "Chakotay, why did your sister run away from our house just now?"

Young Chakotay lay on his bed, book (a real paper one -- how barbaric!) in hand. He looked up sullenly. "How should I know?"

"You were arguing with her. A deaf man would have heard how your voices were raised."

"So?" he said, a little smugly. "We had an argument. So what."

"This is what. I want to know what kind of brother drives his own sister out of his house."

"Hey!" Indignation brought him off the geometric-print bedspread and onto his bare feet. "I didn't start it."

"I don't care who started it," Sokanon said implacably. "You're the older, and you have the greater responsibility."

"That's not fair!"

"In what way? Your father and I don't begrudge you when you claim privileges for being older. But you don't get privileges without responsibilities. Now, go and get your sister."

"What? I won't!"

There was no bend in Sokanon's posture or her words. "She is your sister, and you will get her."

* * *

Sokanon emerged from the tiny house she shared with her daughter. Lukaya, conspicuously, did not. Chakotay, former Starfleet officer and now a commander of Maquis, strongly suspected that she was still steaming with the anger she had so recently poured out on him: anger that he had left, anger that he had returned, anger that he had not done more to honor their deceased father in life or in death. 

To hell with her, then. Let her choke on that anger. His heart was full enough without another dose of her bile.

Sokanon, now shorter than her son and very gray, hugged him with surprisingly strong arms. "Fight well, my son. Be well."

"Be well, Mother." He hugged her back. He might have failed to protect one parent (Lukaya's gibes would not have hurt so much had they not been of one piece with his own guilt), but this one he would give everything to keep safe. He turned to go, but Sokanon stopped him with one long-fingered hand on his arm.

"You won't say farewell to your sister?"

"My sister doesn't want anything from me," he answered, bitterly certain.

"Give it anyway," Sokanon said quietly.

"Mother, I--"

"Chakotay." Sokanon's dark eyes were infinitely sad. "She is your sister, the only other child of my body. Where you go--" she struggled for a moment, but forged on. "Where you go, you may not return. Don't let her last memory of you be poisoned by guilt and anger."

"Mother--"

"If you won't do it for her, do it for yourself. Do it so that as you fight you'll know that there is one more here who guards your spirit with her prayers."

"I--" He had no idea what to say.

"If you won't do it for her, and you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me."

He went into the house, and he did as she said.

* * *

Back in the waking world, Chakotay uncapped his water bottle and swallowed a few mouthfuls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He kept walking, though his thoughts were far from the trail. 

Chakotay's mother hadn't been present at his last meeting with Lukaya. Sokanon had been killed in the battle of Dorvan, though she was too old to have been any sort of threat to the Cardassians or their too-potent allies, the Dominion. As for Lukaya, by all accounts she had fought like the warrior she was, but it had availed her nothing; she had been captured. The Cardassians had held her until the end of the Dominion War, releasing her long after she had been given up for dead.

And when they released her, she had been -- changed. Chakotay had seen as much even in the few minutes he had been able to talk to her, during one of Voyager's brief communications windows with the Alpha Quadrant. But that short interview had done nothing to prepare him for the reality of seeing her again in person.

Lukaya had come to him in prison, where he was being detained pending trial for his actions against the Federation. Her appearance he now knew, so even though it wrenched his heart to see his pretty little sister so thin and sallow and gray, he was not surprised by it. That her posture was so defeated, her clothing so shabby, her tones so low -- that he had not expected.

"Is this the best your precious civilization can give you for all your service, Chakotay?" she'd asked, the flick of her dark eyes indicating the force field that imprisoned him. "A cage?" He tried to explain that his incarceration would be temporary, even short-lived (or at least, that he had reason to hope so), but she was having none of it. "They betray you just as they betrayed me. Well, I've had enough of your modern world's empty promises. I've applied to return to the land of our ancestors, and I've been accepted. If you're wise, brother, you'll join us."

And just like that, his last living kin had left him. He hadn't seen her since.

Lately, though, his dreams of Sokanon and Lukaya had forced his thoughts down new/old paths until he realized that, though his sister might choose to leave him, and his world, behind, nothing forbade him from visiting her in hers.

A rustle somewhere nearby drew his attention, and he realized there were people around him. All around him. The instinct of a former Maquis warrior threw him into a defensive posture for the split-second until he remembered that those who lived here would not come to attack, certainly not to attack a man who bore the same tattoo as they.

The guide called a greeting, in the ancient language Chakotay vaguely remembered but had never learned to speak. And the people emerged from amongst the densely-gathered trees.

They were men and women, clad in soft, shapeless garments of homespun, the men in tunic and trousers and the women in simple shifts. The cloth bands that lay across their brows held a stone ornament, incised with a sacred symbol.

The guide spoke briefly to one of the eldest men. Chakotay heard his own name mentioned, and that of Lukaya. The elder turned and said clearly, "Lukaya!"

She came to him, dressed in the simple garb of the Rubber Tree People. With her came a small boy, similarly clad, his headband circling a forehead that bore the tear-shaped central ridge characteristic of a Cardassian. But his eyes -- Chakotay felt a lump building in his throat -- oh, Chakotay had seen those eyes in his dreams, in the face of his mother, Sokanon.

Lukaya smiled at her brother, a peaceful smile such as he hadn't seen from her since before he'd gone to the Academy. "Welcome, Chakotay." She hugged him. "Our mother told me in a dream that you would come." She tugged the boy a step closer. "Ce Acatl. This is your uncle."

* * *

Chakotay returned to his apartment a week later, to find a series of messages from B'Elanna Torres, detailing the rigors of Miral's first bat'leth lessons. "I didn't really plan to get her started so early," she told him, half-bemused, "but I kept thinking it was what my mother would have wanted."

Chakotay smiled. Clearly it was not only Native Americans who were well advised to give their mothers what they wanted.

Next: "All Together Now" (Voyager homecoming anniversary)


	11. All Together Now

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: All Together Now  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 11/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to my P/T-loving beta reader, Diane Bellomo, who continues her usual stellar work despite the decidedly non-P/T nature of this series. You're the best, Diane.  
SUMMARY: Scenes from the third-anniversary celebration of Voyager's homecoming. Will Tom and B'Elanna reconcile? The fact that I code this story as "C/T" probably provides a hint... 

Funny how much difference a year makes, B'Elanna thought.

This time last year, she had been standing on a stage with Tom Paris, the two of them fussing over two-year-old Miral as they lit the candles on her cake. The assembled members of the former Voyager crew had laughed and applauded, and Tom had slyly leaned over to give his wife a kiss, inciting a few more friendly snickers from their friends.

This year, she and Tom still stood on a stage, and still fussed over their daughter and a cake. But now there was no possibility of a kiss being exchanged between them. Oh, they might have faked it if their former crewmates had demanded such a gesture -- or perhaps, if Miral did. But she doubted it would have been convincing. They had been separated now for more than three months, and the distance between them was greater than could be measured in meters.

She stole a sidelong look at the man who was still her husband. He looked good, she had to admit, in a nicely-fitted pair of navy pants and an open-necked shirt of sky blue. But then, Tom Paris had always looked good. That had been part of the reason why he'd often infuriated her, way-back-when in the early days of their acquaintance: she might have hated his attitude and his approach, but she'd thought him one of the hottest men she'd ever met. Even in the days just before their separation, when she'd been inclined to grant him very little in the way of virtues, she'd still had to concede his physical desirability.

Remembering those latter days vividly, she decided that good looks weren't enough to stand on their own. What she was more interested -- and more surprised -- to note was that he looked sober, and a hell of a lot less brash than she usually remembered him being in company.

Was he trying to win her back?

What would she do if he were?

* * *

Chakotay sat toward the back of the room -- sat, so that his height and his facial markings wouldn't make him immediately visible from the stage -- and watched as B'Elanna ignited a match to set Miral's candles alight. In the process, she leaned closer to Tom Paris, and the reflected flames seemed almost to set both of their faces aglow. Miral, whose resemblance to her mother did not prevent her from having decidedly Parisian cheekbones and a smile that mirrored her father's, laughed with glee at the tiny trio of flames.

They were a handsome couple, Chakotay admitted reluctantly: Tom with his fair skin and fine, well-formed features, and B'Elanna with her dark, exotic face and lithe figure. And they had made a beautiful child. Miral blew out her candles and reached for her parents' hands, drawing them all into a close family unit.

What right did Chakotay have, to think of what might be if that family unit were not, ultimately, reunited? Wouldn't B'Elanna be happier if she could make peace with the father of her daughter? Wouldn't that little girl be happier in a household with both of her parents?

He sipped at his mineral water, considering it. That he was biased (and why) was all too obvious, but it seemed to him there might be one salient argument against that line of reasoning.

In the last year before she'd separated from Tom, B'Elanna had NOT been happy.

* * *

In a corner near the front of the room, Admiral Kathryn Janeway raised her champagne glass, in salute to the little girl who shared a special day with the entire former crew of Voyager. She considered joining in the singing of "Happy Birthday," as there were probably enough raised voices to drown her own. But as her skill at singing was on a par with her skill at cooking, she deemed discretion the better part of valor.

Beside her, a full-bodied baritone voice sounded the familiar notes expertly -- though softly, so as not to dominate the group. Kathryn smiled up at the voice's owner, with pleasure and the tiniest amount of possessiveness. (No need to display claws; he knew to whom he belonged.) He didn't smile back, but he did wink one Terran-sky-blue eye.

She knew she had disappointed several romantics amongst her former crew (those who'd still hoped she might some day choose her former first officer as a partner) when she'd entered the reunion hall on the arm of her lover, Andrei Kolkov. She could not honestly say she was sorry; having a lover was far better than being suspected of having one.

She'd met Andrei at a glittering reception she'd attended out of boredom and an admiral's duty. He'd been part of the entertainment, singing his own songs with a sure, strong, lyrical voice that even jolted a few of the worthies present out of their conversations to listen. She'd gone up to him after one set to offer a drink and a compliment. To her surprise and delight, the handsome blond was every bit the warm, engaging person he appeared to be onstage. He'd charmed her, teased her, and made her laugh, and if there was a more pleasant combination she didn't know what it was.

Kathryn Janeway had forgotten just how heady it felt, to love and be loved. She wasn't sorry now, that she hadn't succumbed to the temptation that had always teased her, back on Voyager, to make the romantics' fantasies come true by taking her first officer as a lover. She'd cared for Chakotay, and indeed she still did. She'd found him attractive, and that was also still true. But she knew, now, that she hadn't loved him, not in the way or with the intensity she loved Andrei. Making Chakotay her lover or her husband, simply because he was undoubtedly the best of the possibilities available in the Delta Quadrant, would have been unfair to him, and to her.

She wondered now if that was what Tom and B'Elanna had done: settled for the best thing available. She hadn't thought it at the time, else she would never have agreed to perform their wedding. But now, seeing the two of them together, Kathryn wondered if perhaps what Tom and B'Elanna had shared had been as much a product of the Delta Quadrant as any liaison she herself might have had with Chakotay. They didn't look as if they fitted together nearly so well in the Alpha Quadrant -- and according to what her old friend Owen Paris had told her, they didn't.

* * *

From the bar, Harry Kim watched as Tom and B'Elanna gathered up their daughter and her cake, and left the stage. Captain -- no, Admiral, he still had trouble remembering that sometimes -- moved smoothly into their place, to begin her annual litany of events that had happened to their former fellow crewmembers in the previous year. Usually Harry would have listened to that speech with some interest, but he thought the most fascinating event of the year was being played out before his eyes.

Having been on duty aboard the Yeager, of course Harry had not been on hand for most of the recent developments in his two friends' marriage. He hadn't even seen either of them in person since that disastrous New Year's Eve party. But of course Tom Paris (who, despite Harry's fondness for B'Elanna, was still his best friend) had given him more than enough calls and messages to keep him thoroughly up-to-date. Tom knew where he'd failed, he said, and why the relapse into his old patterns had proven so disastrous to his marriage. But he had broken those patterns once before, on Voyager, which fact gave him the strength to try once again. Improbably, Tom had even enrolled his own father in the effort to change things. He guessed that proved the old man did still love him.

But now that he'd cleaned up his act, Tom told Harry, he had no idea what to do about the pending death of his marriage. B'Elanna hadn't approached him, and since the initial problems had been largely his fault, he wasn't quite sure how to approach her.

As Harry looked, the erstwhile couple separated again, Tom to carry his little girl over to visit with Admiral Paris, B'Elanna to pour herself a drink of punch. Seeing her standing there, alone at the punch table, gave Harry an idea. Maybe Tom's guilt prevented him from approaching his wife for a word, but Harry had no such inhibitions.

Trying to make it look casual, he walked straight to her. "Hello, Maquis," he said cheerfully, invoking the nickname he'd given her back at their first meeting on Ocampa.

He could tell that his artlessness hadn't fooled her. Her answering look was hooded, wary. "Hey, Starfleet."

Nowhere to go but forward. "I was wondering if we could talk."

* * *

"Hello, Tom."

"Hi, Dad." After their months of working things through, Tom could actually be guardedly glad to see his father at Voyager's homecoming celebration. That the admiral would have gotten an invitation was, of course, a foregone conclusion: Owen Paris's ardent support of Project Pathfinder had made him an adopted godfather to the whole crew.

Miral, of course, had none of her father's inhibitions when it came to the senior Paris. "Grandpa!" she cried, and launched herself toward him. Smiling, the admiral bent and scooped her up, swinging her upward until she squealed with delight. When he drew her closer, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Well, hello there, birthday girl," he said, and kissed her soundly on the cheek. Tom felt a brief flash of envy for the open demonstration of affection, and mentally filed it away to discuss at the next counseling session. Why begrudge his daughter her grandfather's love?

"So how have you been, Dad?"

The admiral's smile grew a little more cautious as he looked at his son. "Oh, not bad, not bad," he answered, tone a trifle too casual. "And you?"

"Pretty good, thanks." Tom could say it with some sincerity since, owing to his hard-won sobriety, it was even true. "I'm doing shakedown flights on the runabout-B upgrade in a couple of weeks."

"That would be the Sisko-class?" The question was probably for the sake of making conversation, since Tom was pretty sure his dad would know the answer. But if the admiral could be courteous, Tom guessed it wouldn't kill him to try the same.

"Well, it will be if it passes."

"Good, good." The admiral chucked Miral up and down a few times, absently. "So. Another session next Tuesday?"

"Yeah. 1800."

"I'll be there." The admiral looked away, and his gaze fixed on something not far distant. Tom turned to see what he was looking at with such interest, and saw Harry standing near the punch bowl, talking to B'Elanna.

Tom's heart leapt into his throat. From the earnest expression on Harry's face and the intent one on B'Elanna's, there could be little doubt what the conversation must be about.

His best friend was interceding for him.

Which, despite the undoubted goodness of Harry's intentions, might influence B'Elanna in one of two ways. B'Elanna could be receptive if she realized Harry had done it on his own, but she'd be furious if she thought Tom had sent Harry as an emissary. Thanks to the example of her own father, B'Elanna had nothing but contempt for men who lacked the courage to speak for themselves.

Tom decided it would be a very bad idea to wait to see which way the chips would fall. So, with a muttered, "Excuse me, Dad," he went to the punch table as quickly as he could.

* * *

With a deadline looming, Seven of Nine had had no choice but to work late, despite the special occasion. She arrived at the reception just as Admiral Janeway stepped down from the dais, placing her hand in that of a tall, slender blond man. So the admiral had taken a lover, just as rumor indicated. Seeing the two of them looking so happy together, Seven decided she approved. She moved toward the couple to extend her greetings, when the scene at the punch table caught her attention.

Thomas Paris was engaged in an earnest conversation with his estranged wife, B'Elanna Torres. Given the couple's famous volatility, Seven prepared herself to hear a loud verbal outburst, perhaps even to witness physical blows. But it did not come to that. Instead, the couple's voices remained so low that it was impossible to hear the specifics of their discussion, and their facial expressions, rather than kindling with anger, seemed filled with sorrow. Eventually, Torres simply shook her head twice, sharply, and turned her back to Paris, striding quickly toward the door through which Seven had entered. Seven stepped out of the other woman's way, but Torres did not seem to notice her.

Seven saw Paris turn away, shaking his own head as if with sadness. But another rose to follow the departing woman, brushing past Seven as if he saw her no more than Torres had.

Chakotay. Seven surprised herself by murmuring, "Of course."

Next: "Life With Father" (Father's Day)


	12. Life With Father

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Life With Father  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 12/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
NOTE: Apologies for the lateness of this Father's Day chapter -- I was preoccupied working on a Father's Day service for my church. I hope this comes off as well as that did!  
SUMMARY: B'Elanna and John Torres get to the dangerous part in their ongoing conversation. C/T implied.

"No, that's all right, I'll get it." John Torres walked out to B'Elanna's kitchen replicator to get himself some coffee. "Anything for you while I'm up?"

"Raktajino for me," B'Elanna said. "The way I like it is the default."

"That makes sense."

A few minutes later he emerged from the kitchen unit, two steaming cups in hand. B'Elanna identified her own beverage before he even offered her the mug; the strong, almost pungent aroma of the Klingon caffeine-of-choice was unmistakable. John handed her the cup, and retreated cautiously to her armchair. "So where's Miral today?"

B'Elanna took a sip of the raktajino, savoring its potency. "She's with her father."

John blinked his surprise. "Really?"

She frowned, irritated. "Yes, really. He sees her all the time." For the moment she refrained from drawing the obvious comparison.

"Oh." John took a swallow of his own drink, but the slight shaking of his hand must have spoiled his aim; he immediately started coughing as if the warm liquid had gone down wrong. Clearly, he'd heard the words she hadn't spoken. He set the mug down. "That's nice."

"Yes, it is." Daring him to comment further.

John Torres had been coming to visit B'Elanna (and usually, Miral as well) for several months now. B'Elanna had rejected his overtures the first several times, but when he'd persisted she'd finally yielded and let him in. Since then, they'd had a series of tentative, quiet connections that B'Elanna had reluctantly come to look forward to. They would end eventually; her experience of bonding with John Torres was that it ALWAYS ended eventually. But while they lasted she'd enjoyed the rare chance to hear some happier stories about her girlhood and her parents' marriage, and the opportunity to learn what had happened to relatives she hadn't seen or heard from in some time.

Today, though...there was something in her mood, something in the air, today. One of her coworkers had mentioned a few days ago that today was the traditional date, in the United States, for a holiday set aside to honor fathers. It seemed to B'Elanna that there was a certain irony in the fact that she would be spending this "Father's Day" with a father who had never earned a great deal of honor in his role.

Apparently John Torres did NOT dare to comment further on Tom and his active fatherhood. B'Elanna wasn't surprised. John hadn't had the courage to risk a quarrel with her even when she was a girl. Back then (and for a long time afterward) she had blamed her mother and herself, for being the kind of women whose anger could not be withstood by an ordinary human: women of the hardy and volatile Klingon race. Now, having learned to accept more of that stormy part of her nature -- indeed, having been encouraged to embrace it -- she felt a certain contempt for him. Was he so weak that even harsh words were too much for him to withstand? Even Tom Paris was more of a man than that. And Chakotay -- he withstood angry words with the ease of an oak tree withstanding arrows.

"Actually," B'Elanna asserted, "I'm glad Miral's dad wants to be a part of his daughter's life." Which was true, but which was also goading her own sire.

No response, beyond a familiar hunted look in John Torres's eyes. That only prodded her further. "HE understands that divorcing your wife doesn't mean divorcing your child."

Something flared in the man's eyes, but his voice was quiet when he at last responded. "You obviously have some things you want to say to me, B'Elanna."

The statement was like a red flag to an alien bull. The very softness of his voice was a too-potent reminder of the differences between them, the differences that he had let chase him away. Was he making a show of his human composure, in contrast to her rising Klingon anger? If so, then to hell with him and his sarcasm. "Do you think so?" she flared. "Do you THINK so?"

"B'Elanna --" He was out of his chair now, approaching cautiously as if he thought he could somehow gentle her by the right approach.

She would not be handled. "Yes, Dad, I have some things I want to SAY to you!"

He stopped where he stood, visibly bracing himself. "Go ahead, then," he said, his jaw tightening in a way that, in any other man, she would have taken for resolution. But this was John Torres, a man to whom she knew the concept of resolution was foreign.

"Are you sure you don't want to leave now?" she taunted. "That's what you did the last time we had this conversation."

He flinched, but shook his head. "I'll stay."

That much won him a jot of unwilling respect. Still, it would not be the first time he'd promised more than he could deliver. Barely heard, a part of her wanted to pull back, wanted to refrain in the name of keeping him here, of keeping him in her life. But the anger, too long restrained, at last demanded its way.

"You bastard!" she burst out. "You deserted me! You left me alone there on Kessik, with humans who thought I was a freak! And why shouldn't I believe them? I was too Klingon for my own father! Why should anybody else want me?" Oh, dear gods, the years upon years of mockery, of laughter, of "Miss Turtlehead," and she had taken all of it, because even her father must believe it -- even her own father had walked away because of what she was. Chakotay, and later others like Tom, Harry, and Captain Janeway, had tried to convince her that her hybrid strength was actually an asset, that it made her who she was. Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, her father's judgment-by-abandonment had never been surmounted.

John Torres sucked in a breath, his eyes widening, but he didn't look away.

"I was too Klingon?" she snarled. "Did it EVER occur to you that when you married a Klingon woman you might just possibly end up with a Klingon child? Or didn't you do the math?"

"B'Elanna!" The protest seemed to burst from his lips involuntarily.

She blazed on, too furious to stop. "Or was I more like a puppy to you? Sure I was cute when I was little, but once I was grown you suddenly realized I was actually a BITCH?"

He flinched again, but somewhere found the nerve to speak up. "It wasn't like that."

"Oh, really? What was it like, then?"

He looked right at her, then, his eyes intent but their expression somehow helpless. "What do you want me to tell you, B'Elanna?"

"I want you to admit you ran like a scared child!"

He breathed deeply, straightening. "All right, then," he said, in a steadier voice than she could ever remember hearing from him. "I ran like a scared child."

"I want you to admit you were a coward."

"I was a coward."

"I want you to admit what you did was wrong!"

"What I did was wrong."

"Do you have any idea how much you HURT me?"

He averted his eyes then, a gesture all-too-truly characteristic of the John Torres she remembered. And then, astonishingly, he turned back to her, full on, vulnerable, and clearly shamed. "I do now." More astonishingly, he walked to her, slowly, deliberately. Every step was clearly an effort, but he did not stop until he stood within inches of her, still meeting her blazing eyes. "And I know there's nothing I can ever do that will change that."

He lay a hand on her shoulder, and she remembered (as she had not since he left her that first time), that for all that he lacked a bold heart, and for all that his frame was slight, physically John Torres was no weakling. "But B'Elanna, I'm here now. And I'm not leaving."

B'Elanna stared at him in pure surprise...and the tentative beginnings of joy.

It was the most amazing Father's Day the two of them had ever celebrated.

* * *

Later she called Chakotay, to tell him of this astonishing turn of events. "And before he left, he asked me if Miral and I wanted to go to the park with him next Saturday!"

Chakotay's voice was warm with pleasure. "And do you?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "I think we'd like that a lot."

END

Next: "On the Sea of Tranquillity" (anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing)


	13. On the Sea of Tranquillity

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: On the Sea of Tranquillity  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: K+  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 13/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
DEDICATION: For my dad, who shared with me his love of space stories and space exploration, and who to this day can recount every detail of the Apollo (and Gemini, and Mercury) flights.  
NOTES: It was Buzz Aldrin, second man to walk on the surface of the moon, who described it as "magnificent desolation." July 20, 2380 really WILL fall on a Sunday -- I checked! And please forgive (but don't hesitate to point out!) any errors; my beloved beta is on vacation.  
SUMMARY: B'Elanna feels closer to Chakotay when they celebrate a historical occasion together. C/T. 

B'Elanna Torres poked her head into Chakotay's study. Voyager's former first officer was seated at his computer desk; even from the entranceway, she could see that the screen was split, an indiscernible image and several pages of text appearing on it. Chakotay had a PADD in his hand and was glancing back and forth between it and the computer screen, muttering softly to himself. Several other PADDS lay scattered on the flat wooden desktop.

B'Elanna wondered, idly, if he always took his shirt off when he worked at the computer. It certainly wasn't a habit he'd had on the Valjean, or on Voyager, probably lucky for the attention spans of everyone who was attracted to human males. She would gladly testify to just how distracting that broad tan expanse of shoulder -- looking much broader than when he was fully clothed -- could be.

//Hey,// she thought with some surprise//I'm allowed to think of that now!// And she was; she wasn't married and he was neither attached nor her commanding officer. Though perhaps this very moment wasn't the best time to grant herself that indulgence; she had a stealth mission to complete.

"Hey, Professor," she said just a little too loudly, and had the pleasure of seeing Chakotay startle. The PADD he was holding clattered to the desktop.

Sighing, he looked over his shoulder with his most long-suffering expression. "B'Elanna, I am REALLY beginning to regret entering your voiceprint on my door-lock."

"Too late," she said cheerfully. "Come on, old buddy old pal. It's time to take a break from that dissertation of yours."

"B'Elanna, I just got to work --"

"Give me a break, Chakotay. You've been working at that thing for months now."

"Yeah, but TODAY I just sat down half-an-hour ago. And you know I want to get as much done as I can before the new term starts."

"I know, Chakotay. But don't you remember what day it is?"

He blinked at the apparent non sequitur. "It's Sunday." He sounded puzzled and a little bemused. "So? It's not as if I'm missing service, B'Elanna. I'm not Christian."

"Yeah, I seem to recall something like that." She looked pointedly at the chamoozee symbol hanging on his wall. "I'm not much of one myself. But Sunday IS my regular day off. Which means that it's my best chance to drag you away from that desk for a few hours. Besides, if you've forgotten what date it is, you really HAVE been spending too much time working on your dissertation."

"What DATE it is?" He obviously had to think about it. "It's July twen --" His expression cleared. "July twentieth. The moon-landing anniversary."

"You got it," she agreed. "I thought maybe it would be a good day for us to take a shuttle up there and play tourist."

He chuckled, soft and baritone. "I didn't think that sort of thing interested you."

"Well, I did think it interested YOU. So come on, Professor. Are you game or not?"

"You talked me into it." With a few quick motions, he saved files on computer and PADDs and set the equipment on standby. Then he rose and stretched, a ripple of lean muscle across his back belying the fact that he'd already marked his first half-century. Plucking his shirt from the back of the chair, he shrugged into it.

* * *

These days, of course, Earth's moon was far from the "magnificent desolation" one of its earliest explorers had described. Being one of the nearest astral bodies to the human home planet, Luna had been the first site for extraterrestrial human habitation; as early as the 21st century it had been covered with clusters of domes and honeycombed with tunnels and manmade caves. To this day, it was one of the most extensively developed human settlements on any non-Class-M sphere.

None of that, however, was apparent from the anteroom that looked out on the Sea of Tranquillity. B'Elanna admired the illusion: the area around Mare Tranquillitatus was actually no less densely populated than the rest of Earth's satellite. Only some very high-grade holographic technology kept it from seeming so, making it instead appear to be part of the vast emptiness those early Terran astronauts had seen.

Tranquility Base, where the first Terran explorers had landed, was thoroughly authentic; even the early lunar settlers had not disturbed what must have seemed like hallowed ground to them. //That's the only reason I can think of that they didn't just pick everything up, stuff it in some museum, and pave the ground over,// she thought, remembering what she knew about the settlers' rapacity for land. //And left a plaque -- at most -- to mark the landing site.// They'd done considerably better than that; even to covering the base and the lunar lander with a coat of transparent aluminum to ensure that tourists would never despoil the area for souvenirs.

That said, not much of the land surrounding it had actually remained untouched: the sites of other, later landings that ought to have been visible from here were represented only holographically. According to the maps she and Chakotay had looked at in the transport waiting area, the "historical section" was very little larger than the original Tranquility Base.

Chakotay, surprisingly, did not seem to be enjoying the view as much as she was. He looked almost disgruntled. "Hey you," she asked, puzzled, "what's wrong?"

He shook his head, obviously trying to shake whatever-it-was off. "Nothing. That stupid arcade bothered me."

They had made arrangements for their "moon walk" in the tourist plaza that preceded the anteroom. One of the other features there had been a section with an assortment of hologames. B'Elanna had taken no special notice of the area. "What about it?"

"You didn't see the lunar lander game?" She shook her head. "Yeah. It was asking people to see if they could land the descent module better than Neil Armstrong did." Chakotay frowned. "He did have trouble landing. He nearly ran out of fuel. But still -- it's a travesty. As if how beautifully he did or didn't land was what mattered."

She blinked. "Well, of course it wasn't. Wasn't what mattered was that he was the first?"

He gestured with his index finger, as if he were awarding her a point. "Exactly. Back then, this really WAS where no man had gone before. And he knew that if he failed, he and Aldrin would have been alone. Would have died alone. Compared to that kind of nerve, what difference does it make if someone else could have made it look prettier?"

She snorted. "About as much as it should have mattered that we didn't make a picture-perfect flight back to the Alpha Quadrant."

He smiled a little, as if in appreciation for her understanding. "Exactly."

She reached for his hand, feeling the warm pulse of his flesh beneath her own. "Don't let it spoil the visit, Chakotay. What's out there -- that's what counts, remember?"

He shook his head again, this time in apology. "Yeah. Thanks for the perspective check."

"Any time." She shrugged into her "spacesuit," which bore a superficial resemblance to the ones Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin had worn so long ago, but of course had all the modern improvements and failsafes theirs had lacked. "You ready?"

He fastened his spacesuit collar. "Ready as I'm going to be." His lips formed a smile almost in spite of themselves.

B'Elanna smiled back, something in her hearts easing almost imperceptibly. Between his dissertation and his visits to his sister, Chakotay had been spending a lot of time in his past, and his peoples' past, over these last months. At some level, of course, she had known that he was also a man of the modern age, and would never choose as his sister had chosen, to dwell as his people had in that past. Nonetheless, she was still subtly reassured by this clear evidence of his connection to the technological universe.

Besides, Chakotay had rarely smiled in her presence without drawing an answering smile from B'Elanna. She'd never been able to help it, and didn't think it was at all likely that she'd start any time soon.

They donned and sealed their helmets, and stepped into the airlock. The chamber sealed before internal mechanisms cycled out the air. Then the door opened, and the two 24th-century space travelers stepped out into the dry "sea" upon which their long-ago predecessors had trod so lightly and so profoundly.

Their steps long and loping in the low gravity, they moved rapidly toward the spidery framework of the descent module. Because of the transparent aluminum that covered the area, just an inch or so above the surface, their feet left no marks in the fine, powdery dust that passed for soil here.

With the skill of experienced spacers, they stopped easily just in front of their goal. Chakotay's gloved hand touched the transparent-aluminum-coated surface of the module with searching gentleness. B'Elanna could see the expression on his face even through the smooth surface of his helmet visor: a look of reverence.

"Look." His voice was soft in her suit comm. "There's the plaque they left behind." It was affixed to the lander steps, and he leaned forward to read it, though knowing him B'Elanna would have been very surprised indeed if he had not already had the words memorized. She drew closer to examine the plaque more closely herself. At the top were two drawings, of the Eastern and Western Hemispheres of the Earth; at the bottom were the signatures of the Apollo 11 astronauts, and in the middle were words that had long since passed into legend:

Here Men From The Planet Earth First Set Foot Upon the Moon, July 1969 A.D. We Came in Peace For All Mankind.

Chakotay read it aloud, and B'Elanna could hear in his voice the strength and pride of the ancient words, of the small steps and the great leaps made in an era where they had been thought impossible. To her, child of a warp-speed age, travel to a planet's satellite had always been a thing to be taken for granted, and not much more difficult than traveling to another town. But just for a moment she was there, back in the twentieth century. She could picture the look on those ancient astronauts' faces as they hung that plaque and imagine the wonder felt by those on the shining world below. And then she was back in her own era, and she knew what those small steps, those prideful and hazardous voyages, had led to.

"Amazing," she whispered.

Chakotay turned to her, smiling again, and she could see the same awe on his face that beat within her hearts. "You understand."

"Yeah, I think I do." She reached for his hand, and squeezed it. Though the gloves they wore were far thinner than anything the ancient astronauts had worn, she could not feel his skin or his pulse. But she could feel his strength, and the connection between them that was more palpable than this simple contact.

They turned their attention back to the lander, to the artifact that was also a monument. After a few moments, a strong arm wrapped around her shoulder, and drew her to his side.

They stood there, in silent witness, until a signal sounded in their suit comms to tell them it was time to return from their tour.

NEXT: "Some Like It Hot" (a vacation story)


	14. Some Like It Hot

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Some Like It Hot  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 14/?  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
SUMMARY: When they share a vacation trip to Pacifica, B'Elanna reflects on her past -- and her present -- with Chakotay. 

B'Elanna Torres shook her black hair back, then reached for her beach towel to wipe the water from her face. //Nothing like a good swim.// And this had been a great one; she doubted she'd been less than half-an-hour plying her stroke through the crystal-blue ocean waters, at full speed the entire time, no one and nothing in her way. She filled her lungs with a deep breath of warm air, and enjoyed the mild but pleasant burning of well-worked muscles.

//Nice place,// she thought. In some ways this Pacifican beach reminded her of the beach resort program back on Voyager, warm and sunny and well-peopled, with cold drinks and every food item one might desire near to hand. But here the buildings were white stone to match the pure white sand, and melted unobtrusively into the landscape so that all one saw was that brilliant whiteness against the crystal-blue sea and the radiant blue sky. Only the presence of the tourists themselves gave any hint that this world had been touched by civilization at all. //Pretty.//

B'Elanna had never been to Pacifica before. As a girl she couldn't have afforded it (and her mother would have scorned such soft luxury anyhow), as a Maquis she would hardly have dared visit such a popular world, and since returning from the Delta Quadrant she simply hadn't taken the time for a proper vacation. But after everything that had happened in the past year, she'd felt the need for an extended break from her usual routine. Besides, it seemed very strange to her that her daughter -- child of two of the farthest-traveled Alpha Quadrant denizens in history -- had never set foot on a planet other than Earth.

Chakotay had been the one to suggest Pacifica. As a spaceman for nearly twenty years before he'd joined the Maquis, he'd taken leave on the Federation's most famous beach world more than once, and swore that it lived up to its idyllic reputation. After that, B'Elanna had felt that nothing would do but to invite him to join her and Miral. He'd groused about some research that he needed to finish, then accepted the invitation with a smile that made her wonder if his resistance had been purely pro forma.

Speaking of her traveling companion, where --? She looked around and spotted him and Miral at the water's edge. As Miral watched, he quickly built a sandcastle in the path of the encroaching tide. A minute later, the water flattened the fragile white construct, to Chakotay's mock look of chagrin and Miral's scream of laughter. He moved a step up the beach and began work one more time, to the same result and the same uproarious laughter. Smiling wryly, he picked up the little girl and carried her back to her mother.

"My turn?" he asked, jerking his head toward the water as he handed over an armful of wet, wriggling, sandy child.

"Knock yourself out." B'Elanna settled her daughter down to the towels and reached for sunblock. Miral was still too young for UV-protection pills, and while her swarthy complexion, like B'Elanna's own, provided some defense from UV rays, it didn't do to take chances.

"Bye, Uncle 'Kotay!" Miral called, waving hugely.

He turned and waved back, tipping a wink at B'Elanna as he did so. His teeth flashed white in the sunlight. "Bye!" Then he ran into the surf, diving like a seal as soon as the water was deep enough.

Brushing the sand from her daughter and applying sunblock with absent skill, B'Elanna watched him swim. His strokes were powerful and competent, rather like the man himself.

It was that sense of leashed power, of unquestioned ability, that had drawn her to him back in her early days amongst the Maquis.

She wondered why she was thinking of that now. Surely the two times had little in common with one another. Back then, he had been tough, hard-nosed, and angry -- save for his surprising control, not unlike B'Elanna herself. Of course, back then he had needed to be tough; they all had needed to be tough. And anger was the fuel that kept them flying, kept them fighting against impossible odds.

She had been asked -- she knew they both had -- what it had been like to be a Maquis, especially a Maquis in the hottest days of their unnamed war in the DMZ. She didn't know if Chakotay had ever found a satisfactory answer to give; she knew she hadn't. How could one ever describe it? A veteran of the Dominion War would understand more than a civilian or an Earth-bound Fleeter, but even that veteran wouldn't understand enough. He (or she) wouldn't understand what it was like to be outlaw, beyond the protection of rule and law -- to be, like the common fly, fair game to be swatted by every hand. To have no safety beyond what you and your comrades could carve out. To know how relentlessly, remorselessly, the odds and the Cardies pursued you, until a clean death might be your best and only hope. Despite all that, to somehow find a way to laugh.

In B'Elanna's memories, there would always be one man who stood in the center of the whirlwind and did not sway: Chakotay. He had been more than the captain of the little cell that operated from the Valjean; he had been its center and its soul.

She was embarrassed now, to remember what a crush she had had on him in her early days as a member of his crew: to her, he had been clever and heroic and consummately virile all at once. She had actually had a hard time speaking to him. And then he had put circuits into her hands and engaged her own cleverness, and she had never been at a loss for words around him again. She was his engineer, and she had -- she EARNED, she DESERVED -- his respect.

He changed her image of herself forever. There were times, in the years to come, when she had doubted her desirability, doubted her ability even to make basic connections with other people -- an ability that she had to painstakingly cultivate as Chief Engineer of Voyager -- but she had never doubted that she had a fantastic talent, a talent that DID make her special, and worthy, and not to be dismissed.

And HE went from being an unattainable love object to something far better: her friend. If privately she still considered him clever, heroic, and virile, she also came to know him as a real person, flawed and vulnerable. Trusting enough to love a calculating, hardheaded woman who later proved to be a spy. Proud enough to try to defeat that woman's plots himself. Angry enough to take his well-justified mistrust of one alien species -- the Borg -- out on a woman who had been their victim as much as their representative. Emotional enough to share B'Elanna's grief over the deaths of their fellow Maquis.

His quirky sense of humor made her laugh. And she discovered the self-deprecating good nature that let him challenge her, over and over, to a game that he rarely won, simply for the pleasure of their spending time together. (Or at least, she couldn't imagine any other reason he might have; he did have other forms of exercise, and other people with whom he could have pursued them.)

This past year, she had leaned on his strength in a more prosaic way than she could ever have imagined, back in the dark Maquis days where they had begun. She honestly didn't know how she could have survived Tom's infidelity, their separation, and finally, their divorce, without Chakotay by her side.

Yes, he was her friend. Her good friend. Her best friend.

Then Miral interrupted her reverie, demanding lemonade and candy. While trying to divert her daughter's desires to more nutritional fare (briefly, if only partly succeeding: Miral eventually realized that her mother wouldn't concede on the candy until after lunch), and went to the repli-bar to obtain that fare, B'Elanna was far too preoccupied to think of Chakotay.

Then she saw him emerge from the warm blue ocean, water sparkling on his broad shoulders and strong limbs in the sun, and she was startled by a not-unwelcome tingle and a sudden thought:

//So where is it written, that he has to be JUST my friend?//

Next: "My Father's Eyes" (anniversary of Kolopak's death)


	15. My Father's Eyes

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: My Father's Eyes  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 15/19  
DISCLAIMER: Paramount, baa baa woof woof. (It's Chapter 15, so by now you know the drill)  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Kathy Speck for "dialoguing" with me, and for providing a copy of "Initiations" so that I could re-watch the pakra ritual. Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.  
SUMMARY: On the anniversary of Kolopak's death, Chakotay performs the pakra so that he can speak with his father, only to find that the older man is as apt to meddle in Chakotay's life as he ever was. This is not necessarily a bad thing. 

The desert was hot and quiet where Chakotay had landed, sun shimmering off nearby dunes and illuminating the far-off mountains to brilliant color. Setting a blanket beneath himself to shield from the heat of the sand, Chakotay dropped into a crossed-legged sit and composed himself to begin the pakra.

Of course, the area was not truly isolated; in an age of hovercrafts and transporters, no region on Earth was truly isolated. But it had the dual advantages of being peaceful and of having been preserved in something close to its natural state, both of which were helpful to performing the ritual that honored the anniversary of his father's death.

Now that he had renewed his ties with the members of the Rubber Tree People who still lived in the ancient lands of the tribe, Chakotay knew he would have been welcome to perform the pakra there. So early in the new school term, though, he didn't feel he could take the time to walk to that place, and it would have dishonored the wishes of the tribe if he had traveled there any other way. No matter. This place had sufficed for several years now, and he thought it would again.

Chakotay lay his medicine bundle before him and tenderly unfolded, first the cloth, then the piece of skin, that held his most sacred treasures: the river stone, the raven's wing, the akoonah. He cradled the stone in his palm for a moment. Then, wrapping both hands around it until it seemed almost as if he could feel the spirit beating within the talisman, he closed his eyes and began. "Akoocheemoya," he murmured. "I pray on this day of memories to speak to my father, the one whom the wind called Kolopak. Though I am far from his bones, perhaps there is a spirit in the skies of my ancestors' world who will find him and honor him with my song. Akoocheemoya." He focused inward then, inward where some remnant of Kolopak's spirit lived in the soul and the body of his son, and waited.

With a greater than accustomed ease, he found himself, suddenly, in a different place.

All around him were the earthy scents and the abundant sounds and the brilliant greens and dazzling colors of the rainforest. He stood at the edge of a clearing, where a flowing creek gurgled and the first smoke of a newborn fire teased at his nostrils. When he blinked, he saw the familiar spirit he had sought, kneeling there feeding small strips of bark to the fire. Kolopak looked as he always did in Chakotay's vision quests: a tall and broadly-built older man with long gray hair, farseeing brown eyes, and a mouth that hinted at humor. As usual at these times, he wore what he had, in life, dubbed his "explorer's clothes": a shapeless white shirt, dusty brown pants, vest, and boots, and of course his broad-brimmed explorer's hat. Chakotay looked down at himself, and saw that his own garments had changed, to denims and a bright shirt, the latter patterned with the chamoozee and other sacred symbols.

Kolopak smiled, a warm and inviting expression. "My son," he said. "I'm glad to see you. Come, sit by the fire and we'll talk." Gladdened himself, Chakotay went, hunkering down on the trunk of a fallen tree.

"Your year has been busy," Kolopak observed, and Chakotay blinked again. Kolopak usually began with questions, not with assured statements of fact. His father chuckled. "You're wondering how I already know something about your year, aren't you? While I might enjoy teasing you with stories of my mystical omniscience, the truth is much simpler: you're not the first child of mine to perform the pakra today! And just as when you were children telling tales on one another, your sister was eager to tell me what she knew of your doings." His grin was wide and delighted. "Never fear, my son. I know she couldn't tell -- doesn't know -- all you have to say. And I'm glad that the two of you have finally closed the gap between you."

He lay a hand on Chakotay's shoulder, in the fatherly benediction he so rarely bestowed. "I should say, I'm glad that you went to her to close that gap. You gave her a greater measure of peace, and you made your mother and me very proud, my son. Thank you."

Chakotay himself didn't see his visits to Lukaya as a matter for pride; in fact, he thought he had delayed too long in his reconciliation with his sister. But, glad to know he had added to her inner peace, he accepted their father's compliments with a grateful heart and a smile. "She gave me a greater measure of peace, too," he acknowledged softly.

"As it should be." Kolopak withdrew his hand, his face still crinkled benevolently. "So tell me, Chakotay, how are the other important matters in your life going?"

"Well, if I can keep up the pace on my dissertation, I should be able to get my doctorate sometime early next year."

"Good, good. Do you continue to study the ways of the Sky Spirits?"

"Yes, I do." It was a difficult task, to explain how his peoples' belief in the Sky Spirits as a part of their faith could be reconciled with his own discovery of living, breathing Sky Spirits. He thought he was managing it well, though; his own faith had actually been strengthened by his studies. "And I'm starting to teach them to others."

"Teaching them to others? Are you sure you're not a shaman at heart, Chakotay?" Kolopak teased.

The younger man laughed. "I'm sure, Father."

Kolopak chuckled for a moment, clearly amused at the notion himself. "And is there anything else you wish to tell me? Wish to ask me?"

One thing did come to mind, but Chakotay hesitated to mention it. "Such as?"

"Such as this woman your sister tells me has come to play such a large part in your life?" Kolopak asked slyly.

Silently, Chakotay sent an unkind thought in Lukaya's direction. "B'Elanna?" he asked, as if he were unsure.

"I believe that was the name, yes," Kolopak said, and Chakotay hoped his own pretense of uncertainty had been a little more convincing than was his father's.

"B'Elanna...is a very dear friend of mine," he answered, and realized with chagrin that the pause was a little too apparent.

"Ah, a friend." Kolopak's eyes twinkled. "So tell me, Chakotay, is this FRIEND of yours a pretty woman, by any chance?"

"She..." He floundered for a moment, then went on more firmly, "Yes. A very pretty woman." He needed no psychic gifts to know what his father would make of THAT.

The expression on his father's face told Chakotay he'd been quite right. "And a very dear friend?" Kolopak pressed cheerfully, further confirming his son's prediction.

"Very," Chakotay admitted quietly. Should he tell his father what troubled him about his own feelings for B'Elanna?

"Ah." Kolopak sat back, as if he were considering the matter. "And would I be correct in guessing that you haven't yet told this B'Elanna that you would like to be more than a friend?"

Chakotay's jaw dropped.

"My son, if I recall, it's not the first time you've been a laggard in such matters." Ah, yes. Chakotay had forgotten he'd told his father about the silent affection he had cherished for Kathryn Janeway through much of their Delta Quadrant journey. "But I still don't understand why a man who's proven his courage in so many other respects is so timorous in matters of the heart."

"Timorous?" Chakotay was stung.

His father wasn't easily cowed. "Timorous. Is there a reason you fear to speak?"

"It's not a matter of courage." Chakotay tried not to sound defensive. "It's just that she really IS my friend, and she's at a vulnerable place in her life right now. If I offer her my love and she doesn't want it, then there won't be anything else I can do to help her."

"You don't offer her your love because you fear to leave her bereft?" Kolopak said skeptically.

Put that way, it sounded ridiculous, yet it was true enough. "Yes."

Kolopak shook his head. "Chakotay, Chakotay. Is your friendship with this woman so weak?"

Chakotay blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Chakotay. Do you truly think that if you told this woman you loved her, and she did not share the sentiment, that she wouldn't want anything to do with you?"

"I...no, I suppose not. But it would...change things."

"Yes," his father agreed. "It would. But tell me, Chakotay: are you so happy with things as they are now?"

"I...in some ways, yes. I enjoy spending time with her; I enjoy being able to talk to her. I enjoy being part of her day." And that was true, though it left out the burning her presence sparked in his body, and the fire he felt at the dreams of her in the night.

"And in some ways no?"

Given what he'd just been thinking, he could hardly deny it. "In some ways, no."

"So. Let me see if I understand. If you tell her of your feelings, and she doesn't love you in the way you love her, it would create an awkwardness between you for a time." Chakotay nodded, cautiously; his father had the sound of building up to something. "There is that risk," Kolopak conceded. He leaned closer to his son. "But Chakotay, what would happen if you tell her of your feelings, and you find that she shares them?"

The fire, this time, was a blaze of joy in Chakotay's heart, prompting an involuntary smile that was, in itself, the answer to Kolopak's question. Kolopak chuckled softly.

"Why must you always make everything so complicated, Chakotay? My poor contrary boy."

"I should talk to her," Chakotay said, almost to himself, and for the first time the words were a statement of intent rather than a wistful hope for the future.

"Yes, you should." Kolopak squeezed his shoulder encouragingly, and began to fade away. Before the older man had quite vanished, another sentence came from his lips, sounding like a whisper on the wind. "You've put off giving me grandchildren for too long now, my son..."

Chakotay snorted, and the remnants of his vision quest vanished in a blink. Once again he sat alone in the desert, sun and sand burning until shimmering waves of heat arose from the dunes. Looking down at his still-clasped hands, he murmured the ritual end to a successful pakra: "I thank you, my father, for sharing your spirit and guidance with me on this day. Akoocheemoya."

Yes, the desert around him was blazing hot. But beyond the desert waited an oasis.

Next: "Birthday Past, Birthday Present" (B'Elanna's birthday)


	16. Birthday Past, Birthday Present

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Birthday Past, Birthday Present  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 16/20 (Yeah, I added a part since the last chapter.)  
DISCLAIMER: (tune of 'C'est Moi,' from "Camelot")  
Paramount, Paramount  
I can't resist your siren call  
Paramount, Paramount  
I play with them, you own them all  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Kathy Speck for being a great person to bounce ideas off. Also, my beta is on vacation, so any mistakes? Totally mine.  
SUMMARY: It's B'Elanna's birthday, and Chakotay offers her some very special gifts. 

As a girl, B'Elanna Torres had never had a birthday party. As her mother had explained firmly, Klingons knew there was no honor in merely surviving a simple biological function, much less honor of such degree as to merit the award of gifts. Instead, a true Klingon celebrated the Day of Honor -- and when one proved one's honor, what greater gift could there be?

Needless to say, that explanation had not increased young B'Elanna's love of her Klingon heritage.

John Torres, most likely trying to avoid more fights with his tempestuous wife, had never pressed her to allow B'Elanna a birthday party. But B'Elanna had noticed that on her birthday, her father had always contrived an excuse to transport B'Elanna to school himself. He had made sure there was time enough to stop at a little cafe and share a special breakfast with her, before pressing the cafe's baker to sell him a few dozen cookies for B'Elanna to take to school. (She still remembered the baker, a round, smiling, grandmotherly woman called Imelda.) And for that one day each year, "Miss Turtlehead" enjoyed an unusual popularity amongst her classmates, at least until the treats were dispensed.

Pulling her hovercar neatly into a parking spot, B'Elanna smiled. She and her father had revisited those pleasant memories this morning, when he'd invited her to her first father-daughter birthday breakfast in decades. He, she, and Miral had dined at a pleasant little restaurant right here in San Francisco. Though it bore absolutely no physical resemblance to the rough and ready place she remembered back on Kessik, the food had been remarkably like. So too had been John Torres's shy, diffident willingness to please, his concern that everything should be just as she liked. And before she left, he had pressed a paper box into her hands. She untied the string and opened the box to discover two dozen cookies, which her coworkers would enjoy just as much as her schoolmates ever had.

She stepped out of the hover, patting her hair more-or-less into place before walking toward the Ristorante Italiano della Diana. John had done her one more birthday favor: he'd agreed to watch Miral so that B'Elanna could have a quiet dinner with Chakotay.

She wondered if she should have dressed up a little, maybe brought a change of clothes so she could spruce up before leaving work. No, she thought, that was silly. This wasn't a date. It was dinner with an old friend, and if she looked as if she were thinking of it as anything more -- much less as if she WISHED it were something more -- she would only make her old friend uncomfortable. Her charming old friend. Her funny old friend. Her broad-shouldered, powerfully-built, unquestionably virile old--

This was NOT turning out to be a productive line of thought, even if the tingle it sent along her nerves was fairly memorable. Okay, ESPECIALLY because the tingle was turning out to be one for the books. With a little shake, and a firm inner admonishment to control herself, she pushed open the restaurant door and went in.

She saw Chakotay almost as soon as she entered; it wasn't a large restaurant and he had chosen a table near the door. To her unvoiced and (mostly) unthought relief, he wasn't particularly dressed up either, though the rust-orange, cross-tied shirt and fitted brown pants he wore did seem to suit him very well. If he hadn't been looking right at her, she would have brought a hand to her collar to loosen it, because the temperature in the restaurant suddenly seemed rather warm. But the gesture would have been too revealing, so she waited until she got to the table to shed her jacket. "Hi, Chakotay," she said, hating the way the words sounded forced, awkward. "You see I made it."

It took him a second to answer. "Oh. Yes, I see you did. Did you have any trouble finding this place?"

"No." She sketched a smile. "I didn't even need to engage the guidance system."

"No? Well, ah, that's great."

She looked around as she sat. To her relief, the place looked nothing like the kind of place one might have a romantic assignation: it was bright and cheerful, with tables decked out in red checked cloth and the sounds of merry music and cheerful conversation. Black-garbed, red-aproned waitstaff bustled from table to table, taking orders away and returning with improbably large and well-balanced trays packed with a wide array of foods. The casual atmosphere helped B'Elanna turn her mind away from romantic fantasies, though admittedly she would have had yet more success in that had not Chakotay looked so downright edible himself. //Damn the man!// But that wasn't fair; she could hardly blame him for what she was thinking.

"So how do you like it?"

She blinked, realizing it was the second time he'd asked her that. But after a deep inhalation, she could answer truthfully, "It smells wonderful."

A pretty waitress, with the blue skin and glossy white hair of an Andorian, stepped up to the table and offered each of them a menu. "Buonasera, signore, signora. My name is Liira, and I'll be your server this evening. What would you like to drink?" She offered them a professional smile. "Can I interest you in a sample of one of the house wines?"

"Just coffee for me, thanks," Chakotay said. "B'Elanna?"

"Do you have raktajino?"

"Of course." The waitress made notes on a small PADD. "I'll be right back."

Studying the menu, with its colorful holophotos of assorted unknown edibles, allowed B'Elanna to mask her unsettled state of mind for a few minutes. Finally she settled on a promising-looking selection of braised short ribs.

The waitress returned bearing their drinks. She took their food orders then, and swept away gracefully, leaving B'Elanna with nothing to do but look at, and try to make conversation with, the man who had once been no more to her than a friend. The man, she reminded herself, who was STILL no more than a friend.

Chakotay interrupted her reverie. "I have a few birthday presents for you," he said, his dark eyes searching her face (for what?).

"Oh. Oh, Chakotay, you didn't have to do that." Though of course, she was pleased that he had.

"Of course I did." He reached over to the chair beside his own, and picked up a sizable box, which he set before her.

She pulled off the colored paper, and unwrapped a holoimager. The GanyTech 5000, to be precise, the latest upgrade of a tool that every design engineer in the Federation either used or coveted. B'Elanna herself had long been wanting to get one to replace her old 4701 model, but it was an expensive device, and nowadays it seemed there were always more pressing uses for her credits. How in Kahless's name a college instructor and doctoral candidate had even been able to afford something like this--

"Chakotay, you REALLY shouldn't have." It was half an admonishment, but she couldn't stop smiling. "But it's great."

His answering smile seemed oddly shy. "I'm glad you like it. I, ah, I have another present too."

"Chakotay--!" He set another, smaller package beside the first. She unwrapped it, and found-she wasn't sure what, exactly. It looked like a pendant, small colorful stones laid out in an intricate pattern on a hammered-metal disk that fit neatly into her palm. A long, thin leather strap served as the necklace. The style of the piece suggested it was something he might have made himself. "Chakotay, what is this?" The small hairs prickled at the back of her neck, with an irrational certainty that, whatever it was, it was important.

He looked right at her, and there was something soft and vulnerable in his brown eyes that she had never seen there before. "It's an old custom of my people."

"What custom?" she asked, disconcerted (but somehow not disturbed) by the look.

He hesitated a moment, but when he answered his words, though low, were clear. "It's a courtship necklace."

Her hearts thundered against her ribs. "What did you say?" She could not be hearing this. She could not be this close to having her dreams come true.

"It's a courtship--" His eyes fell. "Of course, if you don't want it...you know I'll always be your friend, B'Elanna, no matter what. It's just that over these last few months...I started wondering if we weren't meant to be more. You are an extremely -- look, B'Elanna, if this was a bad idea, you don't have to accept the necklace. I'll always be your--"

Oh, gods, she HAD heard him right. The tingle along her nerves was back, fueled by the thrumming of her thrilled and disbelieving hearts.

"Chakotay," she interrupted, "will you SHUT UP!" While he gaped, she put the necklace on over her head, feeling the pendant nestle between her breasts. Then she leaned over the table, heedless of the holoimager, their drinks, or the stares of the other patrons, and she kissed him soundly on the lips.

Next: "Back to Back" (Day of Honor)


	17. Back to Back

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Back to Back  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 17/20  
DISCLAIMER: (tune: "You Are So Beautiful (to Me)")  
Trek's owned by Paramount, you see  
Trek's owned by Paramount, you see  
Not by me  
The scenes here that I've written  
Are what belongs to me  
The rest is Paramount's  
You see  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A relatively slight entry, and probably not, of itself, worth the wait – but the good news is, it's beginning to look as if I just might _finish_ this series!  
SUMMARY: Chakotay joins his sweetheart, B'Elanna, in a Day of Honor ritual. Let's just say it could have gone better.

* * *

Chakotay woke with a groan and a splitting headache. _What the _hell_ was I thinking of when I agreed to go through the Day of Honor ritual with B'Elanna?_

The answer (though multi-part) was actually easy enough to come by. He'd wanted to show that he honored her customs and ancestry as he honored his own, of course. He'd wanted to impress her with his fighting prowess, also of course. On some level he'd wanted to prove that, though past the age of fifty and long since retired from the Maquis, he still had what a warrior would define as "It." Of course again.

And then there was the unspoken "of course," the one that wild targs or his father in vision-quest query couldn't have dragged from him (though Kolopak, at least, would certainly have guessed): he'd wanted to prove he was as good a man as Tom Paris. B'Elanna's ex-husband had participated in Day of Honor rites with her every year since their courtship, had in fact been the one who encouraged _her_ to begin celebrating the Day again, after more than a decade's hiatus. Even in the rocky last year of their marriage, Tom had picked up his bat'leth and joined his half-Klingon wife in running the annual gauntlet, and apparently he'd managed to do it with some credit to himself.

The last, obviously, being more than Chakotay could say. He'd been taken down before he and B'Elanna had even actually had a chance at the gauntlet. Which meant that, despite his best efforts and intentions – _and we know too well where _that _paving leads, don't we, Chakotay? – _ he had undoubtedly ruined her first post-divorce Day of Honor.

Well, at least he hadn't been foolish enough to try his luck with a bat'leth! Years of self-defense training, and more years spent putting that training to practical use, had been sufficient to teach him the folly of trying to master a new weapon in the space of a few months, especially against fighters who'd trained with it since childhood. Instead he'd used what time he'd had to practice a weapon he'd learned in his _own_ childhood: a fighting staff. His Klingon mentor and colleague, daChut, had practiced sparring with him, in a series of early-morning workouts that had often left Chakotay feeling a) oddly invigorated, and b) every minute of his age. They'd had their last session yesterday, and – with the aid of a metal-cored staff – Chakotay had held his own in most satisfactory fashion. So he had actually joined B'Elanna in the Hall of Judgment this morning with some confidence.

_Note to self: outfighting a middle-aged professor of anthropology – even a Klingon one – really isn't any proof of martial ability._

He didn't think he'd have to write that one down.

He and B'Elanna had walked into the building's lobby, when a booming voice somewhere to his left had called out what Chakotay didn't have to understand spoken Klingon to recognize as a challenge. B'Elanna had growled, turned, and raised her bat'leth in response – Chakotay swung his staff into a defensive posture – and the hall erupted in melee.

Back to back with B'Elanna in a plasma storm of brawling Klingons, he'd wheeled, crouched, swung as if by instinct, even using his boxing skills to dispatch one opponent who'd been foolish enough to close within his reach. He'd relished the surge of adrenaline, and was once again the warrior he'd been in his younger days.

For perhaps a minute. He'd lunged forward at full extension, driving his staff into an opponent's armored gut, when _something_ flew into his peripheral vision and his consciousness shattered with the force of impact.

_Note to self, two: there's a reason fighters in Earth's earlier centuries invented helmets._

He didn't think he'd have to write that one down, either.

He opened his eyes then, squinting against the sudden brilliance of unshielded light, when he was startled by the sound of a familiar voice. "Well, it's about time," B'Elanna Torres said, and he turned his head to look at her, wondering whether his injury had brought on the uncharacteristic mildness.

He didn't have long to wonder, for no sooner had his eyes focused on her welcome visage than said visage contorted with what certainly looked like anger. "Chakotay," she said, voice sharp, "you're an idiot!"

Well, that was more in character. "I love you too," he said drily.

"Don't give me that!" B'Elanna flared. "How _dare_ you let me think you were ready for the Day of Honor when that was all the better you could do? Don't you know you could have gotten killed? I thought you said you'd practiced, you idiot!"

"Hey!" He struggled up to his elbows, holding her outraged gaze with his own as best he could. "I _did_ practice. I've been practicing for months."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. Pull the other one, Warrior Boy."

"You can ask daChut!"

She looked, just looked, at him. "DaChut?"

"DaChut! He was my sparring partner."

There was a hint of disbelief in her eyes. "You hadn't worked with a fighting staff since you were a teenager, and you sparred with a _college professor_? For the _Day of Honor_?"

He could sense that this conversation was going about as well for him as the melee had. But there was no way to answer other than with the truth. "Yeah."

She laughed. It could have been worse, for the laugh was simply merry, and devoid of further anger. But it was most certainly a laugh. When it subsided, she said lightly, "Chakotay, you know I do love you. But sometimes you really are an idiot." She raised a finger, in admonishment that looked to be only half-kidding. "All Klingons aren't created equal – as you should very well know. If you ever want to do this again, I guess I'm just going to have to spar with you myself, so I can make sure you're prepared."

His turn to snort, with sarcasm at least partly born of his bruised ego. "Are you telling me an engineer is so much better at hand-to-hand combat than a college professor?"

"The crowd in the Hall of Judgment seemed to think so." Her tiny smile had a hint of pride in it. "After you went down, I had to protect you, didn't I? So I clobbered the one who'd knocked you down, and then I just stood over you, and clocked anyone who got too close to us. I honestly didn't think I could fight them all off. But I was afraid that if I couldn't, even if no one else hit you intentionally you'd get trampled, the way fighters kept pushing back and forth all around us. And do you know what? No one touched you. Or me either, come to think of it." Now there was nothing small or faint about either the smile or the pride. "Best I've ever fought.

"Anyway, by the time the security team settled the crowd down – mainly by bashing a whole lot of heads, big surprise – apparently the guy who challenged us was so impressed by my so-called 'warrior prowess' that he decided he didn't care if I mated with humans, Romulans, or sentient tribbles. That's what he said, anyhow. And the marshal counted up the number of people we'd downed – he counted in your three too, by the way – and decided I didn't have to do anything else to prove my honor. Not this year, anyhow. So all we need to do is check you out of the infirmary, and we can get the hell out of here." She helped him to a sitting position.

"Wait a minute." He shook his head, in a reflexive attempt to clear it; stopped when the motion sent a sickening flach of pain through his temple. "I got my ass kicked – "

"Your head bashed."

"B'Elanna, believe me, I _know_ where I got hit," he said with some asperity. "Anyway, I got my head bashed and as a result you got to prove you had enough honor for a whole year?"

She smiled again. "The irony kind of gets me too, but not enough to make me want to prove any more honor than I have to." Strong hands drew him to his feet. "Can we go now?"

"Wait a minute," he repeated, staying where he stood. "What I'm trying to say here is, I got my ass kicked, head bashed, whatever – and it turned out to be a _good thing_?"

"Well, aside from the part where I didn't know how bad you were hurt, or if those assholes did any permanent damage – I guess. Yeah."

Now it was his turn to laugh, if ruefully. "Maybe I should take a dive every year."

"Don't you dare!" But her eyes were warm with amusement and affection. "Come on, hero. Let's go have a feast or something."

"Okay by me." They were on their way to the infirmary doors when another patient on a biobed caught his eye. "Just a minute, B'Elanna." He stepped closer, looking down at the battered face of a fighter who was just beginning to regain consciousness.

"Need a ride home, daChut?"

END

NEXT: "The Things We Do For Love" (Chakotay's Birthday)


	18. The Things We Do for Love

TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: The Things We Do For Love  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
RATING: PG  
CODES: C/T  
PART: 18/20  
DISCLAIMER: (To the tune of Queen's "Bicycle")  
I love to write my Star Trek fics, I love to write my fics  
I love to write my Star Trek fics, and yes! my fics for Voyager  
But though I love to write my fics, I do not own Star Trek  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to my faithful beta, DianeB.  
SUMMARY: In honor of Chakotay's birthday, B'Elanna tries to reconnect with the spirit guide she tried once to kill. A familiar presence comes to her aid.

The desert sun beat hot upon her back, and made shimmering waves of heat rise above the sandy dunes of the Baja desert. Above her, the sky was clear and cloudless, no aircar or other traffic marring the brilliant blue expanse. If not for the presence of a single hovercar, parked twenty meters behind her, B'Elanna Torres might almost have believed herself to have travelled back to the time of her human ancestors, rather than to a place merely a short ride from contemporary San Francisco.

And if not, of course, for the presence of the man who sat facing her. Though Chakotay, today, looked almost as if he were himself of a piece with their ancestors' times, with the tribal tattoo arching above his brow and the simple, geometric-print shirt covering his broad chest and broader shoulders. Then he smiled that big, heart-stopping smile of his, and was for the moment simply himself.

"B'Elanna," he said, "you know you don't have to do this to please me."

"I know," she said, hoping impatience cloaked her nervousness. "Maybe I just want to see if I can get it right this time."

"Just don't try to kill your spirit guide, and I'm sure you'll be fine." They shared a laugh then, though B'Elanna's had an edge to it. The first – and to this moment, the last – time Chakotay had led her on a quest to find her animal guide, she had been so enraged by the nature of the creature that she had attacked it, failing to kill it, but succeeding in driving it off. What if, because of that disastrous first encounter, it refused to return to her?

She gritted her teeth involuntarily. Well, if it did, then it did, that's all. If Chakotay could risk getting his head bashed in for the sake of honoring her ancestral customs, then she could certainly risk the rejection of an ethereal animal for the sake of honoring his.

Besides, this was one of his birthday presents. And while she knew he'd been sincere in his appreciation of the new computer software she'd given him – programming that would enhance the presentation of his doctoral dissertation – she also knew that this was a gift he would value far more highly. "Let's do it, then," she said.

He took her hands. "Easy, B'Elanna," he counseled softly. "No need to force it."

_That's what you think, _she mentally contested. But in the heat and stillness, and in the face of his own, almost tangible, calm, she drew in a single deep breath and let the thought fall away. She nodded, once, and he began.

"Akoocheemoya. We are far from the sacred places of our grandfathers. We are far from the bones of our people. But we call to the powerful being who once embraced this woman, that that being might give her the answers she seeks." His steady, constant gaze held B'Elanna's. "Allow your eyes to close," he murmured to her. She closed her eyes, seeing and feeling the warm sunlight through her eyelids. "Breathe to fuel the light in your belly and let it expand until the light is everywhere. Prepare yourself to leave these sunlit sands and return to a place where you were the most content and peaceful you have ever been. You can see all around you and hear the sounds of this place."

She opened her eyes then – and discovered she had gone from one landscape of sunlit sands to another. About her were the spun-sugar-white beaches of Pacifica, which she had shared with Chakotay and Miral on a vacation not so long ago. Overhead the sky was a deep, vivid blue only a shade or two darker than the crystal blueness of incoming tide. Lacy white spume vanished swiftly against the white, white shore.

Sensing more than hearing footfalls in the soft sand, B'Elanna turned, half-expecting to see her spirit guide, half- (despite knowing the nature of this place) to see Chakotay. She saw neither. Instead, Miral Torres stood before her, curly graying hair glinting and leather armor gleaming in the sun. "Mom!"

"My daughter." The older woman looked bemused. "So this is the place a warrior visits in her dreams?"

B'Elanna felt her lips tighten. "I'm not a warrior," she said, the old argument.

"No?" Her mother's eyebrows raised. "And yet I remember a time when you fought for me, daughter. And not so very long ago, you were a she-cat guarding your man."

The blood went to B'Elanna's cheeks. "Yeah, I did that."

"And would you not fight to protect your daughter?"

"Mom, we're in the middle of the Federation. I'm not going to have to—"

Miral regarded her steadily. "Would you not?"

"Of course I would."

"If you fight for those you honor, and for those you love, you are warrior enough, then." The glint of amusement was back in Miral Torres's eyes. "And a warrior may visit where she pleases in her dreams. Especially if it is the place where she discovered her heart."

B'Elanna tried to think of an answer to that, but could not. It was true; this was the place where she had first realized that she loved Chakotay, not with the irrational longing of her youth, nor with the calmer bond of friend to friend, but as a woman loves her partner and equal.

"I am pleased," her mother went on.

B'Elanna blinked. "Even though he's not a warrior?" After his showing at the Day of Honor, Chakotay himself could hardly claim otherwise. His lack of fighting prowess mattered little to B'Elanna, but she'd expected it to mean rather more to her full-Klingon mother.

One corner of Miral's mouth lifted. "He is out of practice," she conceded. "Yet he was a warrior when you met him, and in his soul he is a warrior still. Did he not help you to find the courage in your own soul?"

B'Elanna could only nod.

"As for the rest,' Miral shrugged, "have you not agreed yourself to teach him?"

"Yeah." B'Elanna's mouth quirked upward. "I guess I have."

"Then you are well matched."

"Yeah. I guess we are." They stood together peaceably for a few moments. "I have to say, Mom, you're not who I was expecting to find here."

"Oh? And who were you expecting?"

"Well," B'Elanna hesitated, unsure how to explain or even whether she needed to. "My spirit guide."

"Ah." Miral nodded in understanding. "The animal who comes to you in this place."

"Umm….yeah."

"The one you tried to kill, the last time he came to you?"

B'Elanna fought an urge to shift her feet. "Yeah."

"He recognized my greater right, and waits for my departure."

"What?" B'Elanna was bewildered. "He's waiting for me?"

"Of course." Miral looked surprised at the question.

"Even though I tried to kill him?"

Miral barked laughter, hands on her hips. "_Especially_ because you tried to kill him! He knows something of Klingons, after all."

B'Elanna shook her head, bemused in her turn. "I guess he would."

Miral hugged her daughter in strong, warrior's arms. "Be well, my daughter. Be happy with this man you have chosen."

"Mom….are _you_ happy?" After what she had risked, what she had given, B'Elanna had the right to ask.

The brown eyes that met B'Elanna's were filled with love and pride. "My daughter fought to win my way into Sto-Vo-Kor! She gave our line a strong girl-child! And now she stands before me having found her worthy mate. How could I be anything other than happy?"

B'Elanna could not help smiling. "Thanks, Mom. That's good to know."

"And I will tell it to you again as many times as you wish, B'Elanna. If you wish to speak to me here, you have only to come and ask. But for now," her eyes twinkled, "there is another who wishes to speak to you." With that, she was gone.

B'Elanna had time for one moment of regret before she heard the growl.

She had not seen the knife before, but she snatched it up from the sand, diving quickly to her left as the targ charged. She rolled and came back up, and the battle was on.

She opened her eyes to see Chakotay sitting opposite her in the Baja sands. "You look pretty pleased," he observed, a smile playing about his full lips. "I take it things went better this time."

"You bet." She and her guide had led one another a wild, exhilarating chase. "Thanks." She leaned forward and kissed him, and was even more pleased. "But you were wrong about one thing." She didn't explain it right away, instead enjoying the look of confusion on his face.

NEXT: "And to All a Good Night" (Christmas)


End file.
